Things We Lost In The Flames
by O'Donnell
Summary: What did Sherlock do while Dr and Mrs Watson was on honeymoon? How and why did Charles Augustus Magnussen come to his attention? Why did Lady Smallwood take her problem to 221B, Baker Street? And what happened to create the situation which meant Sherlock finally had no alternative but to kill the man? This is the backstory to the finale of His Last Vow. NOW COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter One: "We sat and made a list…"

What happened to Sherlock while John and Mary were away on honeymoon? How did Sherlock tackle the mystery of who put John into a bonfire? And why? Why did Lady Smallwood take her problem to Sherlock? And what did he do about it? And why - finally - did Sherlock have no alternative other than to kill Magnussen?

This is not so much casefic as backstory study. I have always been fascinated by the tone of His Last Vow, the sense that Sherlock knows more about Magnussen than he ever gives away, and that somehow he and Magnussen know each other better and in more ways than we see depicted on screen.

Sherlock Series Three Special Edition and YouTube carry a seriously creepy deleted filmed scene when Magnussen visits Sherlock in hospital after the shooting, and his behaviour shows he is mesmerised by Sherlock Holmes; and takes predatory advantage of Sherlock's condition.

The Sherlock Chronicles book also has a deleted scene where Magnussen admits to being fascinated by Sherlock because "I have never had a detective before" and Moffatt and Gatiss describe a deleted scene from script whereby Magnussen ignores John and Sherlock to strip and swim at Appledore despite their presence.

This background is contribution and grist to the mill of this story. If anyone needs explanation and justification for Sherlock being seen as a killer, this is it.

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Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 1: "We sat and made a list….."

Greg Lestrade has always appreciated beautiful women, and the poised young woman in the black and white Alexander McQueen evening dress with her striking red hair in an elegant and old fashioned double bun was certainly easy on the eye.

Looking out into the room and watching the crowd at the police ball over Sherlock Holmes' shoulder while the consulting detective blocked out the rest of the world and faced the wall was normal behaviour if the two were ever in a social gathering like this.

Sherlock did not like social situations of any sort ( _"nothing more irrelevant than small talk and over sophisticated food, Lestrade.)_ but this was a police widows and orphans fund raiser, and - having been leant on by Greg to do a favour - he had been a last minute stand in for one of the guest speakers, so it was a rare social outing, but also a situation impossible to avoid in the circumstances.

Sherlock being Sherlock, the anticipated talk did not happen. After being introduced he stood up and adjusted his microphone, told the audience without preamble:

"The police often deal with murder. But murderers and their victims are not who -or what - you would always anticipate." and with that stooped to draw his Guarneri violin and it's bow from beneath the table where he sat, retuned briefly, ignored gasps of surprise from the audience, and began to play a dancing, lyrical Baroque tune that charmed and silenced the room within seconds, however surprised they were to see the consulting detective play.

Very few people knew Sherlock Holmes was a musician, and even fewer had ever seen him perform. Lestrade knew, and had, and he now grinned, watched his friend with quiet pleasure, and surreptitiously recorded the event on his telephone.

It was indicative of the contradictory nature of the man that although he had refused to give a speech (" _immodest self promotion_ "), he had instead offered to Lestrade " _a brief musical turn - no chat, and definitely no Q &A!" _instead.

Stunned into silence by the very idea, Lestrade had hesitated to point out that to see and hear him play would be more powerful and revealing to a roomful

of policemen, judges, parliamentarians and influential celebrities than to hear him speak on criminal justice. Lestrade could imagine the reply - the crinkled nose the petulant scowl: 'Nonsense, Lestrade. Music is nothing to do with the work, thus irrelevant." Lestrade appreciated the viewpoint, but knew no-one else would share it.

Watching Sherlock now - totally concentrated on the music, bending and weaving around the sound he was making, dark curls flying, the formal tuxedo emphasising his long lean frame and the soft lighting flattering his high cheekbones and Byronic look - Lestrade realised with a pang that this performance would only fascinate onlookers even more; deepen the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes and, contradict the image the young man carefully cultivated for himself as an unemotional thinking machine when music pouring out of him like this displayed such heart.

Twelve minutes of astonishing musical virtuosity later he stopped as abruptly as he started. Put up a hand to kill the applause before it began and said simply:

"That was Jean Marie Le Clair's Violin Sonata in D Major Opus 9 Number 3. Le Clair was one of the greatest French Baroque violinists and composers and was murdered - stabbed in the back three times outside his house in France.

"Suspects aplenty, but the murder was never solved. One that was - the murder of a New York Metropolitan Opera Orchestra violinist pushed off the roof in the intermission of a performance by a covetous stagehand she refused to date. Classical musicians are not always victims however. Sometimes they are indeed the murderer.

"In 1912 Albert deBrahms killed his wife in a fit of jealousy then tried to dissolve her with acid in the bath of their New York apartment. Then shot himself sitting in his armchair in the parlour.

"And one murderous musician to remember is Jack Rowland Murphy. Champion surfer, jewellery thief, tennis pro, movie stunt man and circus diver, he was also a violinist for Pittsburg Symphony Orchestra then was convicted for murder- and of course found religion in jail. And no, I haven't made him up, he was real.

"A life lesson for all in the search for justice and truth. Never make assumptions, never take anything for granted."

With that he gave the audience a brief nod and left the dais to loud applause, frowning and hurrying to the cloakroom to reclaim his violin case. Lestrade turned off his phone, saw the flashing cameras of the press, the unblinking red light of the television camera, and realised Sherlock had just unwittingly created a media sensation.

Police PR officer Pony Patel would be rubbing her hands with glee, and the CAM News team recording the event would have a quirky scoop to peddle to the world's press for the following day. Lestrade sighed. Told himself Sherlock couldn't help it; he attracted such attention - and was born to trouble - as sparks rise upwards.

At his own request Sherlock had been tucked out of the way of most people that evening, safe on a corner of the top table for the meal he did not eat and barely conversed through.

After the musical interlude Lestrade saw that now the self proclaimed sociopath had done his bit he was keen to escape: he was scanning the edges of the crowd with his peripheral vision like a security camera for something vaguely interesting to concentrate on, and, finding nothing, had turned to face the wall in boredom. Any minute now he would mutter some apology and disappear. Or just not bother to make an apology and disappear anyway.

Talking shop was the only conversational topic Sherlock could tolerate at most times, and he had already pushed aside many congratulations on his performance, and declined to enter any conversation on the topic.

Now he was deep into a one sided discussion - or it might have been a lecture - on DNA testing advances that was going way over Lestrade's head but which he knew was really both fascinating and educational if he could properly concentrate on it. But it had already been a long day, and Lestrade was finding it hard to filter out the jazz combo playing in the background and it's sultry contralto singer.

And then the red haired girl caught his eye as she approached. She was heading straight for them with a distinct sense of purpose. And he could tell she had her eyes firmly fixed on Sherlock.

Lestrade ducked his head, coughed to catch Sherlock's attention, and muttered half under his breath:

"Female fan heaving to on your starboard side."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, grimaced and then laughed at Lestrade's jaded expression, and, still laughing, half turned to see who was approaching.

Lestrade watched the eyes of the consulting detective narrow and darken, his whole mood change in an instant, body language snapping closed even more intensely than normal to make the spine straighter, the tilt of the head haughtier, the expression empty and impassive.

So Lestrade found himself suddenly on the alert too. What had Sherlock just seen that had turned his good humour glacial? What had switched him into frigid full-on work mode?

Surely it could not be the approaching girl? For she looked nice enough, and was smiling pleasantly at them now, looking relaxed and walking easily, her clutch bag tucked under one arm, a hand outstretched in what gave every appearance of being a good natured greeting.

Sherlock, typically, turned his head away from her approach and ignored her. So Lestrade politely took and shook the proffered hand instead.

"DI Greg Lestrade," he said genially. "Hello."

"Hello," she said.

The girl smiled at him. Smiled properly, with an open face and warm, humorous eyes. A pretty if unremarkable face, with a scattering of freckles, dancing blue eyes it was hard not to smile back into, an air of being calm, sociable and intelligent. Lestrade found it no hardship to smile back at her even though he knew he was not the attraction and that the smile was not really for him, and he wondered yet again at his friend's ability to attract men and women to him without the aid of charm or even good manners.

He had long ago given up wondering how Sherlock Holmes did it, just accepted that it was so.

"And this is my friend Sherlock Holmes."

Greg put out an arm to Sherlock to draw the detective in. Sherlock declined to be drawn. In fact he put his hands firmly into the pockets of his tuxedo jacket and then became more deeply frozen and non reactive than before.

"Good evening, Sherlock Holmes," said the girl, smiling directly into his eyes and presenting her hand. "That was a wonderful performance."

Sherlock ignored both the smile and the hand and refused to meet her eyes.

"Good evening, Mr Holmes," repeated the girl, keeping her hand out, still smiling up into his eyes, relaxed, yet also clearly determined to make him respond to her.

Lestrade watched with a creeping sense of unease. Sherlock was not sociable at the best of times, but this was something else. He held his breath, watched, and was suddenly, somehow, poised and ready to react.

"No," Sherlock repeated.

"My name is Katherine Haig, Mr Holmes, and I…."

"No," he said again. Then smiled his coldest and most excoriating smile and blazed his eyes finally into hers. "Haig was an infamous murderer How very appropriate in the circumstances. Alone here tonight, I see. Despite your marriage. Kitty Riley." He bit the name out like a curse.

Lestrade's head jolted up. He recognised that name! Now, where did he recognise that name from?

"I have not been Kitty Riley for a long time," she said gravely. Waited, eyes still on his, but received neither reply nor acknowledgement. Having made his comment Sherlock looked up and away, not so much avoiding eye contact now as declining to recognise she was still there in front of him. And Lestrade saw that she realised this too.

"But I have been hoping to meet you again for a very long time."

There was something softer, something like a plea in her voice now, and although Sherlock's expression did not change, Lestrade could tell from a finite shift of his shoulders that the younger man had heard and recognised that.

He still did not reply or react further. Shifted his body weight as if about to walk away. So she took a step closer to block him.

"Do you always behave like an autistic child?" she asked without heat, only quiet curiosity. "Doesn't it hurt to always be so nasty? You are no fool. You know you are being bloody rude and how that hurts people."

Lestrade sucked in a breath. Was that a lucky guess about the autism, intended as an insult - or was it knowledge? Either way it could be seen as a low blow. He looked at the girl again, and realised alarm bells were jangling somewhere in the back of his mind.

"Being rude also gets you nowhere, don't you know that?"

"You know nothing. You never have," Sherlock finally spoke again, six words in a tone that could freeze blood.

She ducked her head then, and bit her lip. Gasped a breath as the taunt hit home, but still refused to be deflected.

"Sherlock…." Lestrade hissed a warning, but the girl put a hand lightly on his arm to stop him.

"No, Mr Lestrade. Please. Whatever he says to hurt me, I deserve it. I only hope it makes him feel better. After what I did to him."

"Better!" hissed Sherlock with savage scorn and began to turn away again, then half turned back. "Why are you even here?" Just as bitingly.

She lifted her head, and there was a glint of pride in her eyes: Lestrade spotted it, and knew Sherlock would have too.

"I am a celebrity guest, if you must know."

"No you're not." Sherlock said it with such speed and certainty the girl backed down immediately.

"As good as," she defended with spirit. "I am here as the direct representative of my boss. Who just happens to be a serious media magnate, I'll have you know. And he chose _me_ to represent him here this evening, at this glittering do."

Sherlock's top lip curled in something between a snarl and a sneer.

"You mean he manoeuvred good PR in the old boy network by accepting his invite, paid a king's ransom for his ticket, then got out of the boring bit by sending a minion. Clever man. Shame the best he could find was you."

"Sherlock….." Lestrade muttered a warning his friend may have heard but did not heed.

"Please, Mr Holmes!" she appealed, and put a hand on Sherlock's arm. Lestrade flinched for her; did she not know, could she not tell, that he loathed being touched?

He shook her off with a brief convulsive jerk and arched away from her and started walking without a backward look.

"Kitty Riley!" exclaimed Lestrade suddenly as he watched her face fall and look almost desperate now as she watched him stride away, violin case on his back. "Now I know you! It was you who wrote that expose of Sherlock! You who believed Moriarty! You who labelled Sherlock a fraud!"

He caught her wrist now and looked her in the eyes, dragging her concentration from Sherlock. And he found himself unexpectedly and unusually angry.

"You were the idiot who sat in judgement - the person who made him kill himself!"

"But he didn't, did he? Kill himself?" she turned to him then, and for a second Lestrade could have sworn she was on the edge of tears.

"As good as," Lestrade snarled.

"Don't I know it?" she snapped back at him. "I spent two years blaming myself for his death….."

She dashed a hand across her eyes, and now seemed unable to say any more.

"Yeah - but he was just another story to you then, wasn't he?. Not a person. Not a soul. Not a force for good," Lestrade could hear the bitterness in his voice, but he didn't care. He had spent too long resenting the publicity storm that had ruined the reputation and career and the entire life of Sherlock Holmes. "You believed the lies about him." He paused and then added with a slow and untypical ferocity: " And you spread them."

Katherine Haig - Kitty Riley. Now he recognised her and he could not believe the cold fury in him. He was a copper. Like all coppers he had never liked or trusted the press. But what had happened to Sherlock because of Kitty Riley's red top expose of him - as a fraud, a fake genius, a criminal - had angered Lestrade at the time, and still, he discovered with a jolt, angered him now.

"You can't blame me for everything that happened! Not everything was my fault" she cried, struggling free of his grasp. "Let go of me! I must talk to him! Catch him up and talk to him!"

"He doesn't want to talk to you. Why should he?" Lestrade demanded, not loosening his grip.

"I must, it's vital!"

She was bucking under his hand now, all pretence at calm sophistication gone.

"Please let me go!"

She put her other hand on top of his and tugged her wrist free, and Lestrade stood back as if stung, marvelling at the sudden strength and desperation in her.

"Do not do that to him again. Don't!" he hissed, leaning close into her as she wrenched away.

He stood and watched as she followed Sherlock out of the exit doors and into the corridor. Ran after him, as if her life depended upon it. The swing doors rattled back hard against the wall as she flung herself through them, and Lestrade watched until she had gone, then tried to talk himself back into his usual amiable calm, smiling placatingly towards the few people who had witnessed the scene..

But the encounter had unexpectedly disturbed him. He hoped it had not disturbed Sherlock. The consulting detective had not looked disturbed, but no-one ever knew his feelings, not really. He hoped….no. Shook his head. Sherlock was an adult, he could cope with this. And it wasn't his affair.

Lestrade made a mental note to call him in the morning to make sure he was OK and walked slowly back into the party. But there was a nasty taste in his mouth now.

o0o0o0o

Katherine Haig had entered The Four Seasons Hotel, cool, confident and collected. But Kitty Riley - shocked, shaking, panic stricken - was the girl who left.

Dragging her coat onto her shoulders, her handbag stuffed into her pocket, her hair tumbling, she exploded out of the glass main doors onto Hamilton Place, and looking around wildly for Sherlock Holmes.

Where had he gone? Which way? Left heading for Piccadilly? Right towards Park Lane? She was sure he had come out of the main entrance in front of her, but scanning wildly up and down the road she could not see his tall distinguished figure anywhere on the dark pavements. Yet no taxi had pulled up or away. So where was he?

A sob escaped her throat and she swore softly under her breath. Where was he? Where? She had so much needed to speak to him, and he showed up in neutral public places like this so rarely, she might never get a chance again, a chance to corner him and speak to him in public where his response to her would hopefully be moderated by the social situation, the presence of other people.

She was, she now finally admitted to herself after almost three years, haunted by his memory and his fate, terrified to encounter the man in private now he had risen from the dead. And yet she had no choice.

The last time they had met had been in her own flat. She had taken pleasure in proving him wrong, humiliating him, filling the last words she had said to him - "You. Repel. Me." - with as much venom and distaste as she could muster into the words.

He had not replied but he had looked her square in the eyes with unspeakable disgust, his own eyes black with anger, and his lip had curled back in distaste before he had rushed out into the night. The fact that he had not spoken to her and released the pain she could see in him despite himself always haunted her, afterwards.

At the time she had felt a thrill of both personal and professional victory within her for having bested a genius and discovered the truth about him, despite all.

The fact that he had died the following day, driven to it by her journalistic expose revelations about him, had haunted her mind and interrupted her sleep for months. She had been so proud of herself then, so confident in her powers, so convinced by the testimony and paperwork Richard Brook had provided that showed Sherlock Holmes was a fraud, that her story was written, the exposure made, the scandal rolled forward.

For twenty four hours she was the new star, the investigative young reporter whose name was on everyone's lips and who had proved her worth. Being on top of the world was a fabulous place to be. The delight lasted such a brief time….before Sherlock flung himself from a rooftop, his reputation in tatters. Because of her.

Her pride crashed down and died on the pavement, just as Sherlock Holmes had, and as quickly So she became haunted by that final meeting between them, his silent response to her power over him. Why had he not shouted at her? Hit her, even? Just defended himself against her words and her news story? If he had done that, she would have felt better - justified, excused, ordained to reveal his truth. But he had not done that.

And she spent months - years - having the conversation with him in her head that they should have had then. When she could and would have justified herself and explained it all to him. How the story had come about and been hers.

So when the facts emerged that meant he was right and she was wrong, when he was finally vindicated, proved right in every single thing he had said and done, and that she - _she -_ had been proved to be wrong in everything she had believed and written, duped by Richard Brook who was really master criminal James Moriarty, she was shattered. That was a humiliating truth and a life lesson which were something she would never, ever, get over.

Because there was no way she could ever make things right with Sherlock Holmes. He was dead and had gone. And that haunted her.

She had stood numb and grieving, watched his funeral service from beyond the cemetery gates and yet still not quite believed it was all really happening. It felt surreal, like having stepped into a horror movie. She felt guilty and responsible. And she had no-one to apologise to, no way to ease her guilt.

He had been so strong and young and vital. So handsome. So confident and self possessed. Not the type of person she would have thought would ever consider killing himself rather than be beaten into the ground by something as tenuous and unimportant as the loss of his reputation.

So then, finally, she realised just how important reputation was as she lost hers. To understand how little she really knew about people, and how shallow the veneer of professional cynicism she had assumed. When she now felt young and stupid and inadequate, and as if Sherlock Holmes' fate had all somehow been her fault. Because it had.

The deeply personal new understanding of herself and the inadequacies of her capabilities depressed her thoughts. Whilst remaining to appear bright and confident and secure in her new status as a top investigative reporter Kitty was damaged and confused: for Sherlock Holmes' death had somehow served only to increase her reputation with everyone - apart from herself.

Especially when, belatedly and unbelievably, a judicial investigation proved Sherlock Holmes to have been right. In everything he had said, every case he had worked, every testimony he had made. And then miraculously the man himself was back - back here in London! The reappearance and resurrection from the dead caused a sensation. As did the way he had then saved London from a bomb in a modern day Guy Fawkes plot to blow up Parliament.

Kitty had been relieved, impressed, appalled. She had expected him to return and chase her down, set on revenge. She had problems with all the other news outlets asking for her formal reactions to his return, how she could deal with having been so wrong in her career making expose. How things were for her now.

So she smiled, made trite professional replies, tried to marshal her thoughts and her fears and handle them all. She had not dared to be present at his impromptu press briefing outside his old home after foiling the bomb plot. But she watched it on television, replayed the recording she had made over and over again.

He seemed exactly the same Sherlock Holmes, two years on. Tall and slim as ever, poised and assured, with the same confident stance, the same collected baritone voice. She watched and searched for signs of weakness, of the damage that should surely be his after two years waging some lonely and top secret war. But she saw nothing of the sort, and marvelled at how he had achieved and maintained that equilibrium.

So now: so unexpectedly - here he was, a late addition to an important charity event, the last minute stand in to replace a nondescript television presenter whose only claim to fame in attending that particular dinner as a speaker had been six months as a police cadet fifteen years earlier and whose broken leg skiing the day before kept him away and in a Davos hospital.

Katherine Haig had been catapulted into the event that morning. She had been expecting a quiet day scheduling her diary and organising interviews for the coming week, but had been summoned by her boss to his 32nd floor office and tossed a gilt edged invitation card.

"I have too much in hand to attend this," he had told her in his clipped measured tones. "Go in my place. Watch everything that happens and find me a good story, some interesting background An in depth interview with someone special for the weekend edition perhaps?"

It was not normal to be given an off diary job like this at such short notice, but his look and tone denied any possibility of contradiction. Even before she opened her mouth to protest he smiled a very small smile in her direction and said: "Take the morning off, Katherine. Get your hair done and go find a new dress. On expenses. It will be cleared by me. OK?"

She was just leaving, confidence bolstered by his confidence in her, and had her hand on the door, when he called her back, his voice with an edge she had never heard before.

" Now it is time to start to really earn your not inconsiderable salary, Katherine. Find your mark and hit the best target. For me. You will know what that target is when you see it."

Was that a threat? He held her pinned with those flat pale blue eyes she could not read, and did not smile at her now; but then, he rarely did. Just a brief nod that said…..something she could not understand.

So she smiled at him, met those eyes, chose to take his words at face value. Swallowed anything she might have said, nodded and left. Killed her foolish fears for a while and enjoyed a luxurious time shopping for a new dress and being cosseted.

It was only after she had arrived at the hotel she learnt there would be a late replacement speaker and who it was. Katherine Haig had smiled and nodded, and Kitty Riley had quailed inside.

For she suddenly had the creeping feeling that she had been given a mission - a mission to contact Sherlock Holmes. That her new boss knew of the past connection between Holmes and herself, knew Holmes would be there tonight - and had sent her specifically; to get her reaction, to see what would happen. Frightening, cold blooded, confrontational journalism. Well, she would try to do her best to deliver what he wanted - she would show him!

And although she was daunted by the prospect, she also knew that aside from her work, she herself needed to talk to the consulting detective again. To make her peace with him and receive some sort of forgiveness or absolution before she could move on and begin to forgive herself.

This opening had appeared out of thin air, and before she was properly prepared - if she could ever be properly prepared for this. So she had to just jump in. Had to.

She trusted that the company of a respected policeman like Lestrade had tempered Holmes's response to her, and because of that she felt she had narrowly avoided being knocked down by one angry blow from Sherlock Holmes, an act of vengeance she had been anticipating for years.

Something she now thought only appropriate in response to her expose about him; an expose that led directly to ….what, exactly?. Kitty was a good enough journalist to be able to imagine what the two intervening years must have been like for him - torment, danger and isolation, death of the soul if not an actual physical death. And it was all her fault.

For a moment she paused, out there in the dark and on her own with no-one to see her, and her shoulders slumped in defeat. She had to find him and talk to him! She might not have - or dare to take - another chance!

And as this thought formed a smooth baritone voice behind her quietly said:

"Well? Speak. And quickly."

She spun round to see the tall figure in the Belstaff coat step silently from the shadows behind one of the white concrete support pillars of the hotel's front entrance. After all that had gone before….had he actually been waiting for her?

"I….I….." she heard herself stuttering in surprise and fear. He took a step closer, all concentration upon her now. And she stepped hurriedly backwards.

"I don't hit women," he stated flatly, interpreting her movement. "Yet you clearly expect me to. Your guilty conscience is ….interesting."

"I'm sorry….." she began, and the words stalled in her throat.

He tilted his head and studied her.

"What for? Particularly?"

Didn't he know? Didn't he see? Could he not remember after all that had happened to him in the interim? She swallowed hard, assuming he was being sarcastic. But she looked again and heard nothing in his voice, saw nothing in him at all except a calm, disinterested detachment in the way he was looking at her.

"For the expose I wrote about you. For destroying your career. Your life."

There She had said it. And instantly felt purged and drained and exposed and light headed.

"You have an inflated sense of your own importance."

"But I….I was responsible" She reeled back from his insulting indifference as if struck. Whatever she had thought his reaction might be, it was not such coolness, such lack of engagement. "You must hate me. Surely?"

He tilted his head and looked at her and this time it was she who avoided meeting his eyes, afraid of what she would see there.

" Immaterial. You were never that important. If not you, it would have been some other red top hack. You were just a cog in a process planned by cleverer people than you. I have never given you a thought."

She staggered back a little then, astounded at his cool dismissal. Was he superhuman - or acting tough? Was he just as strange as people said - or truly mad?

"None of those things," he said drily, as if he had read her thoughts. "I just do not care. Except to ask why you so urgency need to talk to me?" He paused, tilted his head, deduced her. "Ah. You want something from me. Bit of a cheek, but do tell."

Kitty Riley felt she had plunged through an entire gamut of human emotion in the past two minutes. And now felt small and rather grubby. But she pulled herself up to her full height, raised her chin and said:

"I want to interview you."

The instant harsh shout of laughter, and the naked disdain in those opal eyes, made her feel as if her skin was being flayed.

"Why?"

"Because you are a celebrity. Because you are a hero. Because people want to know about you. Because you are unique. Because it will be good publicity for you. Because it will allow people to understand…."

"Those reasons are of no interest to me. Try again with the truth."

She caught her breath and sought the right words, knowing only honesty would do now.

"Because I want the chance to write something proper about you. For you. This time. To put things right. I owe it to you."

He looked at her silently for so long she squirmed and had to look away.

"That is mere sentiment. You have neither the wit nor the courage to come up with this idea yourself. Did your editor suggest this to you? Because I have no intention of being sullied by that rag…."

"I don't work for the _Sun_ any more! I was head hunted for something better…!"

"You could hardly do worse…"

"I work for the _Daily Briefing_ now!"

"Never heard of it."

"It's new. Since you….left. New, popular, intelligent, trending."

"Sounds hateful."

"No! It is good. Popular."

She realised she was losing him, saw him move forward to walk straight past and dismiss her.

"You're right, Sherlock! All of it!" He was still walking away and she could hear her voice rising in something like fear and inadequacy as she tried to hold him to her. "I want to do this, of course I do….but not my idea! Or my editor's! Our owner…!"

He did pause and half turned then, and with some strange thrill within her she did not want to identify, saw something move behind his eyes at last.

"And why would a newspaper owner be interested in me?"

Afterwards, she realised that she, too, should have considered this question. And might have if her life and her career had not depended upon it. So instead she had smiled at him. Smiled as if he was an idiot. Underestimated once more the man and the importance of the question he asked her.

 _That finally got your attention, Mr Sherlock Holmes_!

"Don't try and be modest!" she challenged. "You know you are unique. Special. Back from the dead to save the British constitution and hundreds of lives - and you did, you did it!. You are a real hero, not a thick football player or a TV nonentity, and truly not a fraud. Why can't you see that for yourself?"

She watched him watching her, so unmoved by her appeals, and still could not understand his blindness about himself, his effect on other people. "And whether you understand it, or are interested in it, the bottom line is simple - people are truly fascinated by you," she replied.

Honestly, but also with a sense of superiority, because she could not understand why he even needed to ask the question, why he appeared to neither rate himself nor show any need to be rated by others..

He lifted one shoulder in a bored shrug.

"None of that means anything to me "

"False modesty?" she asked with confidence growing a little before his blindness.

"No. Total disinterest," he responded drily. "No interview. Are we done?" Began to walk away again.

"Sherlock, please!"

She thought she was going to cry. She could hear the plea and the rising hysteria in her voice. She had tried her best and did not know what would happen now she had failed. All she could do was throw herself at his feet, sob, and hope he would be a chivalrous male and just take pity on her. So she didn't care any more if he heard the pain and desperation in her. And he did.

He half turned, catlike, still walking softly backwards.

"So you are more afraid of him than of me. How telling. Has he threatened you with dismissal if you don't snare me?"

He stopped and came back, just as she had wanted. To pace slowly all round her, making her feel naked, despairing, indescribably vulnerable. He stalked slowly, hands in coat pockets, assessing her, she realised, and to Kitty it appeared he saw everything through the laser vision of those strange grey eyes, emitting the power and arrogance of an emperor - a grand vizier - or even, she thought fancifully, a Thoroughbred stallion.

This man had so much incorruptible strength and power in him…how had she ever dared take him on two years ago?

"Who is your owner?"

She sniffed back what might be tears.

"Magnussen. Charles Augustus Magnussen. Have you heard of him?"

"Of course. A reptile. Get a new job elsewhere. Now - while you can. My advice, for what it's worth." The words rapped out, a staccato drumbeat.

"As if it's that easy!" she protested, stung.

"Not my problem."

This time he walked away and kept going.

"Let me send you some of my cuttings! See what I can and will do for you! Think about it, at least! Please, Sherlock!"

He continued walking, a unique silhouette; tall and lean with strong shoulders firmly set. A tangle of overlong dark hair, dark skirted coat with collar flipped up high and hands fisted in pockets, the stride long and confident, the violin case incongruous on his back.

However hard she willed it, he did not turn or wave a hand, gave no sign at all of having even heard her.

She stood and hoped and looked, listened to his footsteps receding and tried to quieten the rapid hammer of her heart, to swallow the fear that had risen like bile in her throat. Watched him round the corner and disappear from her view without looking back.

She realised she had put both fists into her mouth to stop herself crying out. She was frightened of Magnussen, she finally realised. Defeated. Despairing. But there was nothing she could do now but pull herself together and go home. Then stare into the darkness and try and decide what to do next.

TO BE CONTINUED…..

 **Author's note:** All the murder cases involving violinists mentioned by Sherlock are real. Le Clair's murder has never been solved. Almost forgotten now, in his time he was considered the first modern violin maestro, as player, teacher and composer. The Le Clair piece Sherlock plays can be found - played only by others, sadly - on YouTube.

This story needs to be dedicated to my grandfather. Always known as Gus, his name really _was_ Charles Augustus. Not Magnussen, happily. But Priestnall. His other claim to crime writing fame - having been a choirboy in Dorothy L Sayers's grandfather's parish as a child.


	2. Chapter 2

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 2:"All that we have amassed….."

The backstory of why Sherlock Holmes shot Charles Augustus Magnusson.

This tale should run to around 25 chapters. I will post a chapter every weekend, all being well!

2/25ish

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He was walking so fast, slamming his feet down hard and angrily into the pavement, that his long bones were already starting to hurt. The pain was good, it was distracting and calming and almost dispelling his upset.

Park Lane was always quiet at this time in the evening, and it was a relief to not have the distraction of having to negotiate dawdling and meandering pedestrians and waste mental energy on that irritation. Walking through London at night was something he usually looked forward to and was normally an aid to his thought processes, but tonight he was too wound up, disturbed and far too angry. And he was angry that the anger was so illogical.

He had not wanted to attend the event - he didn't do events - but the venue was only a short walk from Baker Street, and he had no case on, nothing else to do this evening but look for distraction from boredom and from the dark creeping sense of wrongness that threatened to overwhelm him these days.

So when Lestrade had appealed to him to be a last minute replacement for one of the speakers at the police charity fund raiser, his nonchalant and careless 'why not?' came out before he had even thought about it. Lestrade had been amazed and pathetically grateful, but Sherlock was dismissive. He couldn't be bothered to concentrate on creating a talk, he warned, so would simply play the Guarneri instead, he was sure that would do. And Lestrade - who had seen him play - almost purred in agreement.

The evening had been tolerable enough - borderline boring, as these things always were - and it was only afterwards, as he was about to leave, that Kitty Riley had put herself in his face and demanded his attention.

It had been a shock. He had barely thought about her at all around the time of The Fall. And in the two years and eight months since, had had no reason to. Her role in leading him to the Fall had been transactional, merely part of a necessary process - to blacken his name to the world - and as a young investigative journalist looking for her big break and her first big story she had been a not overbright but willing dupe.

And James Moriarty had duped the best. From Sherlock Holmes himself and Molly Hooper downwards. So Sherlock had never blamed Kitty Riley for his downfall. She was just a pawn, a part of the process. If it had not been her, it would have been someone else

There were other things about Kitty Riley that had disturbed him more than just her role in his downfall.

She had broken basic barriers of etiquette and used her sexuality against him, and that had disturbed him from the first; when she had entered the gentleman's lavatories at the Old Bailey to corner him.

The prospect of giving evidence against Moriarty had rattled him more than he had thought possible and would ever admit. Only John Watson had realised. As they had prepared to leave the sanctuary of 221B for court, Sherlock had frozen, stuttered to a halt, his back literally to the wall, before John put his hand out ready to open the door and propel them both into the real world.

"Ready?" Watson had asked softly, and for a moment Sherlock could only nod; words would not come. He swallowed hard, straightened his spine, managed a terse 'Yes' and the ordeal began.

Ducking Sherlock into the car, looking neither left nor right and not speaking, John Watson had tried to protect him from the press crowding round, then focus him, coach him for his testimony on the journey, all to calm his nerves.

 _Remember….let's give smart arse a miss….._

Before being called to Court Ten he had taken refuge in the otherwise empty gents and shut himself into a stall for three long minutes of total privacy, arms locked against the wall, forehead pressed to the cool tiles, trying to quieten his panic attack and force down a feeling that might just have been fear - if that was an emotion he would ever admit to experiencing - at the prospect of meeting the black and fathomless eyes of James Moriarty across the courtroom.

Eventually he had pulled himself together, washed his face and hands, looked up to reach for the paper towels - and straight into the blue unblinking eyes of Kitty Riley reflected in the glass.

He did not know who she was then, of course. He had thought she was some stupid sycophantic fan - the deerstalker above juvenile ginger plaits, the 'I heart Sherlock' lapel badge. Her nails were bitten and chipped, her skirt showing the ridge of two separate hemlines above the current one, a skirt over worn and sketchily ironed. Feigning extreme youth, not feigning poverty and a desire to impress.

"You're him," she gasped breathlessly, dropping her handbag to the floor for effect as if in awe as their eyes met through the mirror.

"Wrong toilet," he rapped out, hoping she had not been there and spotted his earlier lapse down into something akin to despair.

"I'm a big fan," she gasped breathlessly.

"Evidently," he rasped, refusing to connect, sensibilities oddly offended

She was not put off and stepped closer to him, doing a doe eyed innocence routine he found especially irritating, and seriously invading his personal space.

"I read your cases. Follow them all. Sign my shirt, will you?" Her voice is a low purr. Her eyes remain on him, the pupils dilated. She finds me interesting, he acknowledges with something like contempt. Attractive and charismatic. Sherlock almost laughs. Irene Adler she is not. This young woman is virtually a child. And a blatant one at that.

As if in confirmation of his assessment she waves a marker pen in his face, opens her jacket to reveal a pale shirt open far too many buttons down to reveal a large amount of a small right breast. Sherlock remained impassive and unsure what to do. Make an embarrassed quip and smile archly to be accused of over familiarity at best, lechery at worst? Sneer dismissively as he so much wants to do, and be accused of perversion or homosexuality? So he ignored her naive and tasteless invitation and felt vaguely soiled by it.

"There are two types of fans," he said calmly, as if giving a lecture. "'Catch me before I kill again' - Type A…"

"And what's Type B?" she interrupts.

"'Your bedroom's just a taxi ride away.'"

"Guess which one I am?" she asks coquettishly.

Sherlock leans away from her closeness, just looking, deducing her.

"Neither."

"Really?" She seems disappointed. Such a shame!

"No. You're not a fan at all." He takes her wrist, notes the indents on the inside caused by resting on the edge of a desk, the smudge of newspaper ink that she has put there herself "deliberate, to see if I am as good as they say I am." And tells all her flaws.

Sees in her pocket the bulge that is Dictaphone shaped; and with it's red light blinking, so it is on and recording his every word. Deceitful and dishonourable. He readies for the kill.

"Wow! I'm liking you…." Kitty Riley smirks, impressed, thinking he is about to praise her cleverness. He is not.

"You mean I'd make a great feature; 'Sherlock Holmes, the man beneath the hat'" he quotes sardonically.

She introduces herself, says politely she is pleased to meet him, holds her hand out to shake his. He ignores it.

"No," he declares. "I'm just saving you the trouble of asking. No, I won't give you an interview. No, I don't want the money"

He steps around her and makes for the door, but she anticipates and is quick. Even quicker than him. Moves fast to block him, to demand an answer to a question.

"You and John Watson. Just platonic? Can I put you down for a 'no' there as well?"

He remembers being disconcerted by that. She is pressing her body against him as she stops him opening the door and leaving, and he hesitates to push her out of the way, not knowing where on her body it might be safe to put his hands, indecisive because he knows the recorder is on and everything - anything - can be misinterpreted, and because he can also tell his proximity actually makes her breathing quicken, her face flush, and he does not know how to deal with that either.

But he is more disconcerted by the direct demand to know what John Watson is to him. People do not normally ask, and he does not care what they think anyway. He has always been buffered by his indifference and the good manners of acquaintances.

That is no-one else's business. It is between him and John, and ignored by both of them, separately and together. He knows there is a great deal of press speculation about them, but he does not care about that; he never cares about the opinion of others.

He simply recognises Watson is the only person he has ever allowed through and beyond his defences, and that is more than enough for him to both recognise and to admit. As for sex….with John….or with anyone….that is ridiculous, and a place Sherlock will never go within himself. Sex, emotion, romance, normal emotional responses, are all things he foreswore with cold deliberation many years ago, and has cauterised himself against ever since. Not going there. Not ever. Relegate to a locked basement in the Mind Palace, abandon and forget. Leave untouched, undisturbed.

She is speaking again….he rouses himself to pay attention, even though he hates her, hates whatever she might be saying before he hears it…..

"There's all sorts of gossip in the press about you. Sooner or later you're going to need someone on your side….

 _John had said as much…it's true…..but that is not in line with what needs to happen….._

She tells him she is smart. That he can trust her. He remembers the recorder running, resists the curt put down on the tip of his tongue, stops breathing as she suggestively slips her card into his breast pocket and taps it intimately down.

"Smart, OK…" he says And he can tell by a movement across her eyes she thinks she has snared him. He is coldly angry. "Investigative journalist. Good. Well, look at me and tell me what you see."

He steps back and she is speechless, wrong footed by his openness. "If you're that skilful you don't need to interview me. You can just read what you need. OK? No? Now it's my turn."

He walks around her, his deduction flaying her. "I don't see smart…." is what she remembers from his quick fire catalogue of all her flaws; of character, clothes, approach And the fact that everything he says has truth within it and he sees it all, even without knowing her, and that hurts more than any invective or abuse. "I don't see trustworthy….but I'll give you a quote if you like….."

He takes the dictaphone, holds it close to his mouth, his eyes - those strange, compelling opal eyes - only inches from hers. The power of his presence has overwhelmed her, like a mongoose with a cobra.

"Three little words….." he breathes closer to her in a mockery of sexual intimacy and she sways towards him as if entranced. So his next words are like a slap in the face.

"You. Repel. Me."

He might as well have slapped her, his words as tangibly hurtful as a physical blow. Her eyes fill with tears.

And he is gone.

He strides down the corridor towards Court 10, breathing deeply through his nose to regain control. As he walks and calms, he smiles. The skirmish with Kitty Riley has sharpened his senses, strengthened his wits, wiped away any after effects of the panic attack. Thank you for that, Kitty Riley!

o0o0o0o

Now he walks on and away from their meeting, heading for home. Once prompted, his eidetic memory unspools the scene afresh in his mind's eye as if it had just occurred. Even in memory he still finds her presence thrusting, overtly sexual, disturbing. A child with youthful confidence blithely unaware of the responsibility her actions should bring.

He takes a deep breath now, shakes his head to clear it of memories from before the Fall, and crosses Oxford Street. But after a few minutes freewheeling in the here and now, finds he cannot leave the memory alone.

Kitty Riley was in the public gallery for Moriarty's trial; he recalls it all despite himself, but he did not see her again until some days later - when he and John Watson had been escaping police arrest, and visited her flat - that unwanted business card had come in useful after all - to find out more about her expose and the scoop of the century.

Her flat was tiny but pretty and surprisingly tasteful. Picking the lock had been no problem, nor had been picking the handcuffs that shackled them together when having the luxury of light to see and time and peace to do so.

Their conversation with Kitty was interrupted by the arrival of Moriarty himself, Moriarty disguised as bit part actor Richard Brook -worrying about the shopping and waking up to smell the coffee - the man with the revelations.

After that, Kitty became a mere background blur: Facing down Moriarty was the task in hand - until the man bolted and escaped through the bathroom window.

Kitty had been venomous against him in what she saw as her victory. She believed totally in Richard Brook, in the revelations she had written that exposed Sherlock as a fraud and a criminal. May even have harboured romantic feelings about him. Sherlock recognised all this at a glance, and in the deepest and coldest part of his heart knew this had to be.

This utter conviction of the innocent girl she really was, not the cynical perspective of the experienced adult crime reporter she tried to be. A child sent to do an adult's job. And perhaps that was the only way such an audacious scheme would have worked. The corruption of an innocent, overfaced and over extended by a master of deceit..

"You repel me," she spat at him, throwing his own words back to him. He met her eyes with his, saw her blazing blinkered honesty and belief in her story there, her trust in the weak and indecisive and oddly attractive young man Moriarty had pretended to be to fool her. To bring the femininity and protectiveness out of her to his advantage and her eventual humiliation.

He knew there was no point in even forming a reply, never mind snapping back at her. She would never hear him, never believe him. And events were now playing out towards his destruction as they surely must.

So he turned away without a word, and ran out of her home, Watson on his heels, and ran on and towards his Fate and his fall.

He did not blame her. She was just a pawn on the board, a cog in the machine, a soprano in the chorus.

But he still would not have wanted to meet her again.

Recollecting all this, he is confused. The Reichenbach Fall seems a lifetime away - not just thirty two months. He is a different person now. Not better - different. He is still dealing with and assimilating that change.

For the past two years have changed and reshaped him. He is more callous, more ruthless, than he had been before. And yet also more emotional somehow, and he hated that. Felt his normal cold control crumbling away, some thing, some deficiency, that surely must be evident to everyone he met as well as himself?

He had worked and killed and sacrified and suffered fear and torment and torture. All in the knowledge that when he finally destroyed all that had been Moriarty's network he would return home to Baker Street and all would go back to how it was, and all would be well.

But life had not happened like that, and he had finally realised it never could have. Mycroft had been right. People who thought he was dead had had to learn to live without him. They moved on. And it was too much to expect them to learn to live with him again. He wasn't nice enough, kind enough, generous enough, to merit that effort.

John Watson had suffered the most, moved on further than most. Leaving 221B, changing his job, finding a woman. A clever, sympathetic woman he had fallen in love with and married.

Just a week ago Sherlock Holmes had done the bravest thing in his entire life. He had been the best man at their wedding, made a speech and solved a murder. Spoke his heart in tribute to his only friend and yet no-one seemed to recognise the guileless courage of this, heard the plea as well as the heart and the honesty in his words.

Sherlock had been nonplussed and brave and oddly humiliated by the whole experience. He had bared his heart - for his friend - for the first time in his life, and yet no-one seemed to realise this or to care that he had done so. Not even John Watson.

And as he had afterwards lifted the Guarneri and played the waltz he had composed especially for John and Mary, after solving the attempted murder and saving the life, he saw everything of himself and of value in his own existence ebbing away, all his securities and his self confidence failing him. And his diagnosis by deduction of Mary's pregnancy had drawn a line and provided the final conviction he needed.

John Watson had a new life now, and he was no part of it. Deserved no part of it. Was needed in no part of it.

He was himself, he now recognised and admitted, a very real and present danger to John Watson. However much Watson may have thought he was saved and inspired by sharing a life on Sherlock Holmes's particular knife edge, that edge cut two ways.

Moriarty had threatened Watson with a sniper, and because of that threat alone, Sherlock had been prepared to take the Fall and enter a road to vengeance that took him into exile. He had thought that would be the end of it when he returned. After all, Moriarty was dead, wasn't he?

And yet. And yet he had been back for merely days before John Watson was taken from the street by two men, drugged and dumped under a bonfire. Ready to burn - _I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you!_ Words that still haunted _-_ and if Sherlock had not solved the clue, danced again to someone else's tune, Watson would indeed have died in the flames and the smoke.

He may have saved Watson's life, but he had lost something in those flames; strength and confidence and companionship. Hope. And the sense that had only been half formed of a new beginning to start to make everything right again; or as right as they ever could be from now on considering Watson's new and different circumstances.

John Watson had been slow to forgive Sherlock's sacrifice on his behalf because he was hurt; viewed the way it had been done, the secrets it involved, as mistrust and betrayal. Sherlock did not agree, but he understood. Even if it was making him bleed inside to admit that no-one took his own hurt into consideration, had ever taken his own hurt into consideration, even if it was the hurt of a man who never admitted to feeling hurt, or feeling anything. Well, there were reasons for that.

 _Be careful what you wish for…._

So how to make things right again? Saving his life in a tube train bomb would not do it - Watson would not have been in danger if he had not joined his friend to solve the puzzle.

Watson had said he forgave him; but the circumstances in which he said that were under huge stress, and Sherlock was still not confident in that admission as truth.

The next day John Watson had reappeared at Baker Street dismissing his injuries as feeling 'smoked' and bearing the cuts and scratches from his ordeal. He had demanded to know why he had been put in a bonfire….and, uniquely, Sherlock had been unable to tell him. Unable to work out who was now targeting Watson, making him dance and perform party tricks. By making Watson suffer on his behalf. The only stimulus that would make him react for his own sake and on his own terms. That were no terms at all, because they were any terms. Any terms that came in to play would make Watson safe.

And until someone claimed responsibility for that, a killer was still out there, A killer and a watcher. A watcher following both Holmes and Watson who could be ready to pounce again at any time.

Marriage had distracted Watson. Nothing distracted Sherlock, and especially not in this….and that puzzle worried and worried at him, day after week after month. For Watson was his responsibility. And until he could make John Watson safe again, he could never truly rest.

The problems of his return, the problem that is John Watson, had Sherlock Holmes out of kilter. He knows this only too well. Getting back to whatever normal should be now is ripping his insides out. But he is persisting, because there is nothing else he can do. He would never admit it out loud, but Mycroft had been right about that too; the task he had set himself and undertaken with such single mindedness had been too much, even for him. And the torture in Serbia had just taken him to the edge of another precipice.

Solving the Gunpowder Plot had pushed him further out of his safety zone to teeter on the edge of a precipice even more dangerous than the rooftop at Barts.

 _Be careful what you wish for!_

He had warned himself as much as he had warned John Watson when they both stared down death in a dusty dark railway tunnel. He wanted John Watson by his side - had grown to need him there.

But in the tunnel, as he realised the thing Watson would miss most would be his future with his new wife…. that had been the moment when Sherlock had recognised he could not do this any more - he could no longer ask John Watson to risk death and danger at his side.

For John Watson was an adult now, an ordinary mortal with an ordinary mortal's responsibilities - a wife, a child-to-be, and a conventional future. That to Sherlock was no future for a field surgeon and a soldier, a fearless companion in arms with a strong resolve and a steady aim, but that decision was Watson's choice, not his. And who was the braver, the stronger? The reckless adventurer who shunned convention, or the brave soldier who stepped back and chose quiet convention instead?

He knows he is the only person who feels the Fall was not in itself an end but just one incident among many. Not a landmark and full stop in the way everyone else feels it was. He recognises their response but does not fully understand their feelings. But then, he was always the only one who knew how much the Fall was only a part of a bigger process.

So he had never considered Kitty Riley as a major player, nor expected to see her again. She had served her purpose in Moriarty's grand plan and been filed away as a past purpose functionary and disgarded from his mind.

Therefore what is she doing bothering him again now? It makes no sense. Does she not understand she does not exist to him? That she is of no interest to him? That he has no desire to speak to her or simply be polite? That he has only contempt for the press?

And yet now she has put herself in front of him again, is clearly needy and showing some sort of despair, and it seems - to her at least - that only he can provide the help and succour she needs. Why is this? And what is it she really wants from him?

An interview seems such a puerile thing, an unnecessary, intrusive thing. Yet so important to her. And he suddenly needs to know why this is; he needs more data. For surely in her line of work anyone would do to fill the space in every tomorrow's fish and chip wrappers and sell the newspaper on any and every given day? Pop stars, celebrities, minor aristocracy, footballers….all are far more appealing than him. So why him? Why now?

For a moment he deliberately switches off the thought processes again and takes a mental break as he negotiates the underpass system around Marble Arch, heading south and then east onto Oxford Street and towards Baker Street. But then he slows his speed as he walks, crossing the Baker Street turn instead of heading left into it, plunging instead into the quietly dark and irregular streets beyond - Duke Street and Manchester Square and Hynde Street, Thayer Street…avoiding crowds and security cameras and just rambling around his home patch now, walking with a sort of blindness and seeking calmness and distraction. Just moving and observing, walking to achieve peace of mind.

He finally begins to circle back towards Baker Street. If he had walked home in a direct line from the hotel he would never have seen the silver grey Rolls Royce Ghost parked quietly against the kerb in George Street, it's rear facing him.

Instinct jolts him out of his thoughts to full alert. This is a part of London where Rolls Royces are frequently seen, but this one Sherlock recognises as different from the norm. In an instant he observes the car sits more solidly on the road than usual; with dropped suspension and wider, lower profile wheels.

A customised Ghost, then, with side skirts, tinted glass and a dual sport exhaust system. A 6.6 litre V12 engine with 22 inch alloy wheels and a kerb weight not far short of 6,000lbs. Armour plated then, with bomb resistant floor pan and reinforced windows that would repel sub machine gun fire. Standard number plates, not diplomatic plating, not personalisation.

Something in his head switches to alert, and his senses turn cold. It is parked there, waiting, because of him, he realises immediately. A few yards only from 221B, yet out of sight and parked discreetly away from Baker Street. And definitely not Mycroft. This is different, something other.

He walks forward, crossing the carriageway to pass close to the Ghost on the same side of the road. A man is sitting quietly in the driver's seat, Sherlock observes. A square faced, broad shouldered man in his late Fifties; past the age for field service, but still handy if needed to be.

Sherlock smiles briefly to himself. The chauffeur impassively watches him walk towards the car, does not attempt to slump down in his seat or pretend the relative invisibility of attention held elsewhere in a book or newspaper. Sherlock impassively watches the chauffeur in return.

As he walks past the car the nails of his left hand rap the vehicle gently so only he and the driver can hear, or would even notice the tiny motion concealed between coat and car for anyone who might be watching. Four long taps, a short, then another long.

Eyes meet fleetingly through the wing mirror and the driver nods very slightly, mouths Sherlock's morse code signal back to him in English - _OK_ \- and then Sherlock is past, heading for home. Calm, but intrigued. So why is he needed with urgency at 9pm on a Tuesday evening?

As he approaches his home he looks up to the bay window to see the sitting room light is now on in the flat, which is not as he has left it, and he turns his key very quietly in the front door lock. As quiet as he is, Mrs Hudson is watching, listening, waiting for him. She flutters up the hall from her kitchen.

"You have a visitor, Sherlock. Wouldn't say no, determined to wait. Thought I should warn you…did I do right, letting someone in like this? I wasn't sure how long you would be. I did say…"

She was looking worried, concerned for him. He spoke very quietly.

"It's fine, Mrs Hudson. I know who this is."

He cupped the side of her face in his hand and dropped a light kiss onto the top of her head, and she was mollified. Retreats back to her flat with a reassured nod.

 _Why have I started doing this? I never used to do this. I must stop. I don't touch people. And she is even soothed by it….._

He paused with his hand on the newel post, looks up at the light showing under the sitting room door. Sighs and for a moment bows his head, letting all his muscles release from the tension within him. Gathers himself and walks slowly and with resignation up the seventeen steps to the flat.

Sherlock opens the door and looks into his home.

A tall elegant woman with a severe blonde chignon and wearing a dark formal suit is sitting in his chair, legs elegantly parallel and turned to the side in fashion model pose. A black briefcase and handbag are propped against the chair.

She is in her early sixties, but looks younger at first sight, still radiating energy, intelligence and power, still possessing a pale ethereal beauty. Her hands sit collected and calm in her lap, and as he pauses in the doorway she turns her head slowly towards him. Cool blue eyes look him up and down with a steady unhurried assessment.

Sherlock allows the scrutiny, and knows she is aware he is permitting her to do that. Neither seem in a hurry to greet the other. He shuts the door softly and takes a step forward.

"What do you want?" His voice is quiet, level, without surprise or inflexion.

"To the point, as always," she observes mildly, in a voice just as neutral as his.

She has a pleasant and well modulated voice which gives nothing away. There is no answer to that, so he gives none.

"It has always grieved me you decline to work for your brother, and with us. Such a waste. We could well utilise your many talents, William."

"Sherlock," he corrects quietly.

"Sherlock. Of course. My mistake." she smiles. "It is so long since I last saw you. You have matured….."

"I should hope so."

"…..yet you are so like your brother in many ways. Except he is ice, and you are fire."

"Are we done with the pleasantries?" he asks, not reacting.

"Almost." The force in her psyche surfaces into her voice for the one word. Then she deliberately relaxes. " Are you quite recovered from your ….depredations whilst away?"

He knows she is referring to his capture and torture in Serbia.

"Thank you, yes." Archly. He realises he sounds like Mycroft at that moment

"Hmn. Mycroft has never been sure."

"None of his business. He worries too much. Always has. And, for the record, I did not need him to rescue me."

"That, of course, is your opinion."

"The only opinion that counts from the only person close enough to judge."

He turns away from her, removes the violin case from his back and places it on the table by the window. Leisurely removes the coat and scarf and hangs them on their pegs in the hall. Smoothes down the tuxedo and sits opposite the woman.

"To business, then?"

He notes her new hesitation when he speaks, something akin to embarrassment.

"I see it is not the your work that brings you here. This is something else, yes? Something personal."

She sucks in a ragged and telling breath. Looks away briefly then back at him, her shoulders dropping.

"You see too much. You always have." She complains, then sighs. "I have always regretted you not working for us. Until now. Now….your independence is…..vital to me."

She wipes a hand across her face, and looks up at him with ravaged eyes.

"And yet it may….I don't want…..to put you in danger because of this. But you are the only….."

He reads the stress and indecision within her she has been masking until now. He looks closer and sees fear. Something alien to both her personality and her role within the upper realms of the British government.

He frowns at her, deducing her, and she tries a small, tremulous smile, eyelids unconsciously flickering, as if ashamed of herself and her need of him. He sits forward, hands on knees, almost touching her now but resisting any temptation to reassure. His eyes are intent on hers.

"Pull yourself together and talk to me, Lady Smallwood. Tell me what you need from me."

TO BE CONTINUED…


	3. Things We Lost In The Flames 3

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 3: "Ticket stubs and your diaries…."

"Pull yourself together and talk to me, Lady Smallwood. Tell me what you need from me."

His words - softly spoken, encouraging - almost break her composure, her very self control. Because this generosity of spirit was not what she had expected. She did not think of Sherlock as being generous of spirit; which was a stupid and false assumption, she realises immediately. For why else would he be the world's only consulting detective - dedicated to solving the problems of others and pursuing justice?

But this has thrown her off balance, and the rush of relief, of finding the right man, who is also willing to take up her challenge, is overwhelming.

She looks across at him. Sees remorseless intelligence and perception in those unusual and all seeing grey green eyes. Yet in the man before her she still recognises the boy he once was - the same wild dark curls, the unusual mix of features in that strangely attractive yet ascetic face with its sharp cheekbones and oddly feminine mouth; the uneasy sense about him always of a volcano beneath an iceberg. But he has journeyed far in the intervening years.

He does not look much like the elder brother she knows so well - Mycroft is deliberately and determinedly conventional in his looks and behaviours - but there is something they share in the tilt of the head, the set of the shoulders, an impression of seeing further than most, of hearing things unsaid. Plus the laser like concentration, the sheer intelligence and electricity of personality that burns off them both and identifies them so clearly as brothers to anyone aware enough to see.

To work with both brothers would be a privilege….she is trying to find the right words to communicate to him, but is still somehow shocked at being here in his presence, a fiercely unique presence she has sought out with objective and knowing decision, and so she really should not be surprised by his ways and rendered speechless by his attitude.

Somehow, she realises she has spent too much time thinking of Sherlock Holmes not just as the troubled child and wild teenager she had known, but now, as an adult, someone who has done something unique: turned from a young man into a myth; a calculating machine that not only solves the greatest and most dangerous puzzles, but also seems to hold the secrets of life and death in his hands: leaping off a rooftop to his death in front of dozens of people - yet still being alive. Singlehandedly tracking down a global crime network - and destroying it. . Dragged back from Serbia as a final throw of the dice to save London from a bomb plot - and succeeding against all the odds. Returning uniquely from the dead to more acclaim and success than even before.

But the man now sitting inches away from her is far from that myth. He is just another human being, vibrantly flesh and blood in his elegant, perfectly fitting tuxedo. Palpably human. Handsome in his own way, uniquely charismatic and perfectly groomed .She can smell his expensive cologne, feel his body heat, sense his energy and aura, and the power of it oddly disturbs her.

His time away enduring whatever he had endured (Mycroft will not say, and when pushed, finally admits - with a rare impotent rage behind his eyes - that Sherlock refuses to tell him all the details he does not want to know, but needs to know) has made him leaner and harder than she remembers; there are new creases between his eyes and beside his mouth, that speak not of time passing but of pain. He is also too pale and shuttered within himself, and something unidentifiable that could even be sadness is lurking behind the set of his shoulders.

If she was an emotional woman she would say he looked fragile and battered and needed someone to look after him, to comfort him. But this aspect of him may just be a phantasm she is imagining because she herself is under stress. Ultimately it is not her concern. And nor, she realises with a jolt, is it even his.

Nevertheless, although he has not seen her for years he is not surprised she is here - and why should he be? Her text from George Bradshaw saying Sherlock has recognised the car and himself as chauffeur, and is on his way home, had prepared her for his appearance, but also made her nervous. But he neither welcomes nor questions her presence in his flat. He does not know what troubles her, what she might want from him, what she is about to ask him to do for her. But he sees the stress and the untypical need in her and does not hesitate.

This is more than she had expected of him, and more than she probably deserves.

She had expected to bargain and barter, to manipulate and coerce, and she had been braced for that; such is her work and career path. She is good at those things, and successful because of that.

In that way she arrived at Sherlock Holmes as the pathway to a solution because she knew no-one else who would be prepared to tackle her adversary - and she was neither equipped nor in a position to do this thing herself. She needed a champion of strength and courage and detachment. And the first person - as well as the final person - she considered for that role was Sherlock Holmes.

"Elizabeth, talk to me. If you don't tell me what's wrong I can't help you."

The rich baritone voice now becomes the soft persuasive purr of a cheetah. The gentleness surprises and unnerves her as does the tiny flicker of concern that passes across those strangely compelling eyes glimmering into hers. She knows he is not a patient man, and yet he is being patient for her.

"I…..I have a problem. A personal problem," she admits.

"Obviously," he responds immediately, sitting back and into his normal brusque self, and she sucks in a breath, recognising that he has lured her into speech. "If it was work, you would delegate. If it was beyond your powers you would refer back to my brother. But you have come to me in the evening, after a heavy day leading select committee enquiries. So therefore you require the personal services of a consulting detective. Not much of a leap. Continue."

"This is not easy for me….."

"Just tell me the problem regarding your husband."

"Oh!" a small exclamation escapes her. For a second she decides he is psychic, then objectivity returns. She knows his extreme mental powers; so why is she surprised just because they turn in her direction?

"This is not easy for me….." she repeats, excuses herself. "Can you promise me discretion, Sherlock?"

"Oh, please…." his disdain cuts. "I thought you knew me, Lady Smallwood?"

"If I didn't I would not have come to you," she responds with traces of her normal asperity. "I apologise."

"An indication of your level of stress. Just get on with it." He shrugs off the words.

"In 1982 - two years before I met him - my husband had a youthful -hmn - experience with a young girl he met at a party. There was mutual attraction as well as sex, and they began a correspondence. Sexy, flirty, youthful. When he discovered she was only fifteen he panicked and stopped their brief affaire."

"Half his age or less, and it's still a criminal offence," Sherlock murmured.

"Indeed so. Then he forgot about it. Just another youthful peccadillo. No harm done. Until two years ago, when he was sent photocopies of letters and photographs exchanged - his to her, hers to him. There was no threat, no blackmail demand, no signature. Just a note saying 'I know. I have the originals. I will be in touch again when suits me." He was terrified. This would be scandal, prosecution, topple his world, break his career and reputation. But then nothing happened. Months went by and nothing. So he decided it was all a tasteless joke, put it to the back of his mind.

"Until last month. Another anonymous note. 'I have not forgotten. Does your wife know?" So, finally, he told me. It can be no coincidence this coincided with the start of the government inquiry. But there are more than 100 witnesses. Until someone stepped from the shadows the connection could be anyone." She pauses, shudders.

"Today - this evening - I am at my club and a man who has just given evidence today joins me. A press baron, almost untouchable. He has been on our radar for some time….he exhibits, shall we say, undue influence with prominent members of the Cabinet, a line of several Prime Ministers, irrespective of party. In my department we have suspected blackmail and extortion for years, but nothing we can prove. No-one stands up against him, no-one dare. He knows, I think, just too many secrets belonging to too many people." she sighs. "This makes him invisible, untouchable. A ghost."

"He comes over to me and tells me about my husband's letters. Tells me that because of them he owns my husband and therefore he owns me….and this may well influence what the commission will find. How DARE he?" She grips the arms of the chair and is white with anger. To compose herself she takes a scent bottle from her bag and sprays the side of her neck, grasps the crescent moon shaped bottle so hard she might crack it.

" _Claire-de-la-lune_ ," Sherlock comments.

"What? Yes. He identifies it too. Says it is too young for me. Tells me I am an old lady. I defy him. He leans in and - licks - my - face. " She shudders at the memory, puts the bottle on the side table. "It felt like rape. This disgusting creature must be stopped. But I don't know what to do. What I can do. It is difficult. Delicate."

She looks up and meets his eyes. "Then I thought of you. So here I am."

"You want my advice?" he asks, his voice neutral. " Wait for the demands. Defy them or pay up. This is a weak basis for blackmail in this day and age. Pay or sweat it out, then let it go by you."

"No, Sherlock. You don't understand. It is not as simple as that."

"Then enlighten me."

He sits back in the old armchair that had been John Watson's, steeples his hands before his face and subjects her words to his forensic concentration.

"This is a blackmailer to end all blackmailers. He knows about….everyone, I think. He may well be the most powerful man in the country because of it. As a newspaper magnet he knows things, has access to inaccessible places, holds damaging files. But he never makes just one single move. He plays a form of three dimensional chess with his victims. He lines connected people up like dominoes, and then when he judges the time as ripe, he flicks the domino at the end and watches while all the others tumble as a result.

"He truly scares me. My husband is just the first insignificant domino who will fall in an increasingly important line of people who are all basically good, committed souls…but who all have secrets, or people they want to protect."

"Continue."

"Since this came to my attention I have been digging for information. An advantage of my job. Well, there has to be one or two!" she flickers a rueful smile, and he nods in recognition and acceptance. "The girl in question was Ellen Catherine Driscoll. A precocious girl, she was providing her services as an escort to pay her way through university."

"A bright girl, then."

"Brighter than that. Her mother and sister run Mayfair's best regarded escort agency - to use a euphemism - and Miss Driscoll was making the most of that connection. Which is when she encountered my husband - and they were undoubtedly mutually attracted to each other then. At university she met a Danish student called Ari Sondersun. They fell in love aged 19 and eloped. They are still happily married in their forties. Have you heard of them?"

"No. Should I have?"

"Well, Danish politics are an alien world to most British people, so perhaps not: and I realise Norway is your own field of speciality in Scandinavian matters, so….." she shrugs. "Ari Sondersun grew up. He now sits in the Danish parliament, the Folketing, a junior minister in the Danish Internal Affairs Department, and is tipped to be a future prime minister - the Danish democratic system is peer among equals led, just as here. He is also on the small but influential Wamberg Committee, which runs the overview of all military and police intelligence in Denmark and coordinates with outside agencies. It is a virtually secret, well informed powerful entity.

"His wife Ellie - our erstwhile Miss Driscoll - has also grown up, and is now a prominent human rights lawyer for the poor and disenfranchised. A growing industry and position in these times. They are hugely popular and influential in Denmark, a golden couple. A political Posh and Becks, if you like."

She smiles at her own imagery, but Sherlock frowns blankly, having no knowledge or interest in mere celebrities.

"The scandal involved, if triggered, would be corrosive to Danish politics, and affect all of Scandinavia and the EU. Their combined influence is that strong. Ellie's call girl history, Ari's youthful use of drugs, their combined typical university past of smoking pot, cannabis….nothing unusual but all things can all be spun as bad news and irresponsible, immoral behaviour.

"Also, and more importantly,…Ari's elder brother Fredrik is a high ranking official of the OSCE, the Organisation For Security and Cooperation in Europe, a little known body and yet the world's largest security intelligence network. The OSCE also patrols the press. Another reason the Sondersun family is being targeted,

"Fredrik's boyfriend, Piet Bruhl - a relationship of many years kept secret for obvious reasons - is deputy director of Danish special forces elite the _Jaegerkorps,_ the Hunter Corps - basically the Danish version of the SAS. Whose role is increasing as the world becomes more dangerous; they are covertly active in the Middle East and working against the current rise of radical terrorism, a subject upon which both Fredrik and Piet are international experts. That is dangerous enough.

"But add to all that, this. Destroy me through Jack, destroy the OSC through Fredrik and Piet, then Magnussen will be able to drive a coach and horses through all press control around Europe and the world in chasing his victims, and this will leave the fabled western freedom of the press now a world press newly licensed to victimise, and Magnussen himself totally laughing at authority, and uniquely able to manipulate it, totally untouchable. The Godfather of damnation and disaster.

"He will be able to destroy and victimise whoever he fancies, on his whim just because he fancies. No-one will be safe from him, and no-one will be able to challenge him. The delicate machinery will have been dismantled from the inside out.

"The basic principle and human right of freedom of the press is one thing; bullying and extortion by the press, through the influence and abuse of power of one man, is something else.

"Knocking over the insignificant domino that is my husband would make a position that would escalate Magnussen's power, potentially take out whole layers of international security, with more people held to ransom and their secrets revealed. Which could and would rapidly lead to more instability, death and civil war in the Middle East and the consequent effects of this instability elsewhere on the globe. At the moment I do not have to tell you the world balancing act is a fragile thing.

"Also, and more parochially: Ellie's family's business - from which she has always distanced herself, but remains a connection and a part of being she cannot deny -especially with her correspondence with my husband as evidence. Her mother and sister hold secrets on, I estimate, at least fifty members of Parliament. Not to mention a cross section of the judiciary and a broad swathe of the Lords, both Spiritual and Temporal. The scandal would rock the nation at a time when we must all stand firm and be united, trust our representatives to act on out behalf, not cause a large proportion of our MPs to have to apply for the Chiltern Hundreds. It would be a scandal bigger and even more damaging than Profumo."

Sherlock nods. Hears an echo in his memory - _I misbehave, I make my way in the world -_ and shuts the door firmly on that room in his Mind Palace.

"Sherlock, I am not given to exaggeration or hyperbole, so when I say that this could be the collapse of the wheel upon which the western world turns I am neither joking nor overstating my case."

Lady Elizabeth Smallwood looks closely at the young man sitting opposite her. Waiting for him to shake his head and dismiss her fears and herself as mad. Too melodramatic, too dangerous, too ridiculous to contemplate. But nothing shows in his face except a fierce concentration and an impression of some inner gearing engaged and turning. She takes a deep breath. And waits.

Finally he says simply:

"Yes. I see why you have come to me."

He was not refusing her. He had heard all that and was still in play. Something tight unravelled from around her heart and dissolved spent into her stomach. She felt weak and breathless. Was he really going to help?

"I understand you are not yet at a point to bring in our government forces and Danish security. And why you would want to avoid that. Anything else?"

"Yes. Harder to say….." she took a deep breath. "We are getting old, my husband and I. Although I am happily as fit and engaged as ever, my husband is…older than me. Is exhibiting health problems. Currently he is undergoing tests. I suspect he has something neurological, something which will either prove chronic, or terminal, or both.

"He is naturally very worried. No word must come out about his health scare otherwise confidence will be lost in several important trade deals with diplomatic repercussions he is currently undertaking with three particular emerging states the UK urgently needs to establish as allies. Also…..to be brutally honest with you….if he has any of the conditions I suspect, I fear he might have the courage to…do away with himself to prevent the future and futile suffering of us both."

"You carry a heavy burden, Elizabeth. Fortunate you have the strength."

Those eleven words almost broke her. But she raised her chin and looked him full in the face.

"Thank you. And do you? Have the strength? To help me?"

He lifted a dismissive shoulder in answer, merely said: "You want me to steal these letters and photographs? Or attempt diplomatic negotiations for their return?"

She released huge tension in her shoulders she had not been aware was clamped there.

"That would be best to begin with, I think. Try normal channels, begin as if by the book. Then when that fails we reconsider what to do."

"No-o-o-o," the negation was silky smooth. "If you are asking me to do this for you, you must leave it to me. You need to remain ignorant and not complicit in my actions. Ignorance is no defence in law, but what you do not know need not concern you. I am a free agent, not a government one. And best I am not directly answerable to you."

"You could put yourself in danger."

He laughed with genuine humour.

"Do ask my brother if and when that concept has ever stopped me doing what is necessary!" He sobered immediately. "Details, please."

You have heard of Charles Augustus Magnussen?" She waited for his nod.

"Press baron, media magnate, reptile. What a coincidence; someone else mentioned his name to me earlier this evening."

"Who?"

"Not important. The importance is that the universe is rarely so lazy as to allow coincidence. Give me the data."

" Age 52, Danish. First appeared on security radar when he dropped out of university aged twenty to take over a little porn magazine published in Aalborg. There is suspicion he blackmailed himself into ownership; he certainly could not have afforded to purchase at his age. Seems he had a rare talent even then."

"Blackmail is addictive to an egomaniac. 'You tell me your secrets or I will tell everyone yours.' Power complex. Control," he explained tersely.

"Indeed. Anyway, he began buying up similar publications, branched into the rest of Scandinavia, Europe. Reached the UK fifteen years ago, starting off buying little county weeklies - now he owns a whole media network and two national dailies. How much blackmail and extortion was there along the way for such a rapid rise? No-one knows. Those he bought out will not say. Not one of them.

"His currency and his rate of exchange are knowledge, secrets, blackmail and extortion. He has two brothers he has not spoken to since their parents died twenty years ago. He has no wife or dependants, friends or close associates. He appears to have an eidetic memory."

"He sounds like me."

"No, Sherlock. Not like you. Magnussen has no humanity."

The young man shakes his head, eyes downcast. As if stricken, somehow.

"No," she repeats, driving him forward now. "You are the Honourable William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I know you. You have friends, honour, sensibility. Why do you think I have come to you?"

"Because I am too flawed and too arrogant to turn you away."

She looks at him, then. Sees the ghost of a smile born of self knowledge. Knows he is being neither boastful nor modest; he simply tells truth and means what he says.

"Sherlock, everyone has weaknesses, secrets, makes mistakes. That is how Magnussen manipulates his power, by using individuals loyalties and humanity and flaws against themselves, because he has none of his own."

"I am as ruthless." The head rises, implacable.

"Yes. Yes you are. That is why I have come to you. And that is how you will defeat him."

He looks directly at her then and there is something so naked in his expression it twists in her heart. Sometimes she hates herself and her vocation, her ability to manipulate.

"What more do you want me to tell you?" she demands. "About Magnussen? Or about you?"

Knows he needs to hear from her the same ruthless assessment of himself such as he himself would give. To know that she is not asking this of him just because of family friendship, an old familiarity, an easy connection, but because she thinks - knows - he can do this.

" Your - disability - is no disability regarding what you do; it is in fact a bonus and adds to your ability as far as I can judge. You align yourself to no-one, so there are no levers to be used against you" - she does not see him gasp and almost deny her words - "You have the rare ability to be as callous and ruthless as needed, and I feel you have further honed that quality over the past two years while you have been away."

"Yes." It is a whisper.

"Now John Watson has married all the sexual speculation about the two of you is void. And I know what you did in that area in the past to survive," she flickers a hand towards him, and watches unsurprised as he pulls away from it; still sensitive, then. "Experiences of the past are never wasted or unlearnt, Sherlock. Let me reassure you that no-one else knows that about you apart from your brother. I also know that you are no longer a drug addict. And that becoming one in the first place was neither your choice nor your responsibility. I also know you are not a sociopath. I understand why you position yourself behind these identities. Have I missed anything?"

" That Magnussen cannot touch me because I do not care about other people's opinion of me. Otherwise you are remarkably well informed. Remind me to muzzle my brother."

"I knew you as a child. I remember your parents. I can access inaccessible files. Do not blame Mycroft for my reading of you."

"Impossible. His opinion of me is far lower. Tempered by experience. What is his opinion of Magnussen?"

"Your brother does not consider him as dangerous as I do. But then, he does not have my experience of him - experience I am not prepared to share with him unless I have no alternative. There are times when Magnussen's media machinery goes for someone Mycroft is paying attention to, and the glare of publicity and secret knowledge revealed actively helps him. I think Mycroft sees him as a fool whose machinations are relatively harmless, but are sometimes useful."

"My brother can be a fool also. He has blind spots."

"Don't we all?"

She stands. Smoothes her skirt down and picks up her bags.

"I take it this intelligence is something neither of us intend to share with Mycroft?" Sherlock asks with a detached hauteur.

"On the premise of need-to-know Mycroft does not yet need to know," Elizabeth Smallwood concurs. "This is, as I say, personal and may be resolved before it escalates. I do not wish my position - or that of my husband - weakened by sharing with anyone, not even Mycroft, all I have told you this evening. Also; if Magnussen knows of Mycroft he may take him as his logical next target, after me. I prefer Mycroft off Magnussen's radar. I am sure you understand. And…." she hesitates to turn her final card, but does so nevertheless. "… I know he would intervene to protect you if he knew you were undertaking this. He is very protective of his baby brother."

"Only for his own ends. Do not be fooled."

She looks at him and bites off a denial. It would serve no purpose.

"I must go. What will you do?"

"Learn my mark. Find a weakness and access. Put myself in his face and see what happens. And then I will present myself as your intermediary. From there - who knows? I will be in touch. Rest assured."

He takes her hand to shake it in farewell, then puts his other hand on top of hers. A rare gesture of reassurance as good and as surprising as if he had kissed her.

"I am," she says, surprised to say it and mean it, and he hears her confidence in him in her voice. He represses a shudder, as if a weight has settled across his shoulders, or a ghost has walked over his grave. She sees and ignores it.

"What don't you like about him?" he shoots unexpectedly at her as she pauses at the top of the stairs.

"His touch is clammy," she replies instinctively, without even thinking. "He says the whole world is damp to his touch; that he has a condition. That I will get used to it. The presumption of the creature!"

"Palmar hyperhidrosis," he says thoughtfully. "Interesting. Usually considered a psychological condition, or a nervous system malfunction. A defensive mechanism also if long term. That may be helpful. Thank you."

"No, Sherlock, thank you. You give me new hope, even though it also makes me fear for you."

She reaches forward and whispers a kiss onto his cheek. His skin is warm, and he has smiled at and with her this evening, shared confidences, and yet he still flinches away from her contact.

"Don't waste your concern on me," he instructs with dark finality and escorts her down the stairs.

At some point she has texted her chauffeur, and as they reach the hall the silver grey Ghost is heard to pull up outside. She opens the front door and takes an A4 brown envelope out of the letterbox.

It had not been there when she entered the house, nor when Sherlock followed her in. His name is written on the front, block capitals in cheap black marker pen. No stamp, hand delivered. He knows what it must be and he takes it from her with a nonchalance he does not feel.

There is nothing more to say, and he shuts the front door before she has even entered her car. Walks slowly back up the stairs deep in thought, calling out absently to Mrs Hudson:

"Visitor's gone. You can lock up for the night now. Goodnight!"

He closes and locks the flat's front door, stretches out full length on the brown leather sofa, still holding the envelope, deep in thought. The crystal glass perfume bottle Lady Smallwood has forgotten and left behind reminds him he has not just imagined the entire surreal conversation. It has been a strange evening.

With a tired sigh he opens the envelope. A dozen photocopied sheets come out, clipped together with a note.

 _As promised. Please read and understand I want to do my best for you. Look forward to hearing from you. Best wishes, Katherine._

He skim reads the articles. Readable in depth features on a TV star, a pop composer, a classical conductor, an internet whiz kid. Not outstanding, but capable enough, fair and thorough.

In his imagination he sees her going home from the hotel, rushing to her printer, selecting and copying the articles from her guard book. Rushing out to grab a taxi and hand deliver as soon as she can. Desperate, hopeful, committed.

He taps the envelope against his teeth. To do what Lady Smallwood needs he must first get under the wire, to get close to his prey.

With quick decision he takes out his phone, taps in a message.

 **Very well. Make appointment tomorrow. SH**

Clicks send and then looks at the empty screen for a long time, deep in thought.

TO BE CONTINUED _….._

 **Author's note:**

All the organisations mentioned above really exist.

The title of this story and the chapter headings come from the pen of the remarkable Dan Smith. Whose birthday is, of course, Bastille Day.


	4. Chapter 4

Things We Lost To The Flames

Chapter 4: "All that we have amassed…."

The telephone pings in a text. That is the fifth one and it is still not 7am. He sits up and sighs. There is a crick in his neck and the tuxedo is crumpled now, the cushions from the sofa splayed on the floor. He does not remember falling asleep.

He picks up his telephone.

 **6.32am Paganini rules! Brilliant! Molly**

 _Must be on early shift this morning._

DELETE

 **6.35am You're on the telly, you poser! Watch Breakfast TV! GL**

 _But you recorded it on your phone, why are you watching it again on TV? I did it, I don't need to see it._

DELETE

 **6.37am Trending on Twitter now! GL**

 _Shut up, you idiot! Who cares, for God's sake!_

DELETE

 **6.40am Seen you on TV. Fabulous! Will text later. Katherine**

 _Good. Progress._

DELETE

 **6.57am We are on honeymoon and you are on telly! What's that about? And why? You OK? JW**

 _Stop texting me! Not replying to this one either. You will get it eventually. Leave me alone_

DELETE

He goes into the kitchen to make tea and feels unsettled. He did not play his violin in public to create a publicity storm, just to avoid having to make a speech. But finally realises this could work in his favour now, put him forcibly into Charles Augustus Magnusson's mind as it is clear that the recording from the gala evening was a CAM News exclusive which has gone worldwide, and made Magnussen a tidy sum.

The irony is not lost on him. And an interview with Kitty Riley - Katherine Haig - will underline that. And yet…..Kitty came to the event with the already clear intent of asking him for an interview, and at the behest of her boss.

So that means Magnussen was already interested in him, already angling for contact. Did he even give Kitty a job in the first place because of her earlier connection with him? Was that to reel her in - or to reel him in? Why be interested, though? And for what? Why have an interest going back so far, even to the time when he was still dead, and making that interest start to become so deliberate now he was back?

He could think of no reason someone like Magnussen could be interested in him. He was not a person of influence to manipulate. Nor even a populist celebrity, not really. So he could think of no way he could be manipulated, nor become an instrument of leverage. Not to anyone.

His only true connection, his only relation, is Mycroft. But how many people even know Mycroft exists? His true scale of power and influence whilst he poses as 'a minor government official' to the outside world? Just another anonymous grey suit, a mere pen pusher? That is the pose. Only the most senior politicians and a select few Whitehall mandarins know Mycroft's true range of influence and power.

Even if Magnussen really knew who Mycroft was, and what he could do, surely someone of the Dane's own range of influence would - should - know that in the final analysis Mycroft would never allow Sherlock to become a lever against himself? That Mycroft would logically and impassively sacrifice his little brother without a qualm?

And that is no less than Sherlock would also want and expect him to do. Because that was Mycroft's character, career and process, and just his normal emotionless decision making. The older brother was even more detached, more uninvolved, than the younger. No blackmail possibility, no credible leverage there.

Dismiss, press on. To answer all the questions, and to solve Lady Smallwood's dilemma, he needed to get closer, to see, observe, demand, assess. To first approach the heart of the minotaur's maze.

Tea and toast, and dishes piled in the sink. He tries not to think of John Watson, away on honeymoon with Mary. He does not want contact with his friend at this time, nor at any other time from now on.

This is his judgement and his decision. John Watson must stop being his friend. This is vital for John Watson's protection, but at this point Sherlock alone has acknowledged and accepted this must be so. He has not yet discussed the matter with Watson, nor feels that would actually be a good plan.

Watson would protest, despite himself. Want to be brave and bold, the good soldier as usual, to go forward into danger and to ameliorate it. Support and protect Sherlock, despite their current lack of accord. Not hold back from the front line and just be safe.

But Sherlock needs John Watson to be safe. Safe to care for his wife and baby, his heartfelt, human responsibilities. Safe to be out of harm's way, and not a drag on Sherlock's consciousness, his decision making process; his need to go forward into the dangerous heart of Maganussen, a place where he needs to have no distractions, no other responsibilities, no albatross around his neck dragging him down. Allowing the predator that is Magnussen an unfair advantage.

How did John Watson come to stand so closely at his side, get through and behind his defences? Weaken his invulnerability by making him vulnerable to others? He had never intended to allow anyone to stand in that place, so close to any part of himself. Yet it had happened, despite his best intentions. He wished….did he wish? ….that had never happened, that he had remained untouched and untouchable. Safe within himself alone, I am myself alone…since returning from Serbia, he has to regularly remind himself of that; and loathes that weakness he is displaying, even if only to himself.

He is not jealous that his best friend, his only friend, has moved on with his life, but remains determinedly disconnected, determinedly disconnecting. He does not want to receive texts that say they have safely arrived at their destination, that the hotel is great, that the sun is shining. He is not interested. He deletes John Watson's texts as soon as they arrive, tries not to read them, to forget them, and never replies. He is unconsciously counting the number of texts he receives before John Watson finally gets the message that he is turning his back on him:

 _Go away, live your new life and leave me alone! I need to learn to live without you, my rock in every hard place. I need you to learn to live without me, without your distracting fix of adrenalin and danger. I do not want to be the reason you die! I want to be the reason you become ordinary, conventional, normal. Be normal for me. For I am not normal._

The patience, sense of purpose and dogged loyalty that he had always found such admirable qualities in his friend - until now - is irritating his mind and hurting him in parts of himself he does not even acknowledge exists.

He idly clicks on the morning television news, and after a few minutes see himself appear on screen. Playing Le Clair on the Guarneri while standing at the top table. He looks critically at his bowing technique and spots small errors; huffs at the sycophantic commentary and the shallow, irrelevant admiration of the presenter. Flips channels and finds exactly the same clip, the same approach.

 _Celebrity detective…no end to his talents…took the audience by storm….thunderous applause…who would have thought it?…who has ever heard of a murdered classical composer? …the remarkable and unique Sherlock Holmes…surprise …._

He irritably snaps the TV off. The phone pings in a text.

 **8.55am You are on all the dailies front pages. On TV. The heavies have done features on Le Clair and the Telegraph has even tried to solve the murder using Sherlock methodology! You are hot! When interview? Katherine**

Before he can think, he keys in letters and sends a reply.

 **8.58am Today? SH**

 **9.02am Yes. At yours? 2.30pm? Katherine**

 **9.04am Not here. Your office. 2.30pm OK. SH**

 **9.06am That's great, thank you. Look forward to seeing you then. Ask for me at reception. Best wishes, Katherine**

When he emerges from the shower Mycroft has let himself in and is settled in what Sherlock still thinks of as John Watson's chair, apparently absorbed in a newspaper.

"What are you doing here?"

"And 'good morning' to you, too," Mycroft replies, unperturbed by the less than warm greeting. "Thought you might like to see the newspaper?"

He flicks a front page into Sherlock's eyeline; under the heading ' _The Maestro of Murder'_ there is a photograph of Sherlock playing at the gala evening.

Sherlock waves a bored hand in dismissal and ignores both newspaper and brother.

"Oh, who cares?" he drones, flopping down onto the sofa and clicking on the television. Victoria Derbyshire is putting the world to rights. He gives every impression of being instantly fascinated by the events on screen, whatever they are

Mycroft waits for a reaction he does not get, releases his patent 'disillusioned with my brother' sigh. Sherlock has heard it all before.

"This is high profile, Sherlock. Whatever did you think you were doing - revealing yourself, putting yourself into the public eye like that? Have you not realised that after your sensational return from the dead and the enormity of the Gunpowder Plot, keeping your head down and letting the publicity storm that is still a tsunami around you die down and disappear would have been a better tactic?"

"Hmn?" he feigns disenchanted disinterest. " Just doing Lestrade a favour."

Mycroft snorts superciliously.

"And when do you do anyone _favours?"_

"More than you think, dear brother. Do try and give me some credit sometimes. If only to prove doing things one hates is good for the soul." He avoids Mycroft's eye and starts clicking round TV stations with apparent concentration." I may be mellowing in my old age. I may be just helping out a colleague. Or supporting a good cause. Or appearing high profile in relation to a case. I may be presenting a useful smokescreen. Whether any of these options is correct is my affair and nothing to do with you."

He cannot resist telling Mycroft the truth, and hiding it in plain sight; just not which of the reasons offered is the truth. Mycroft says he is the smart one, let him work it out.

"Oh, but it is, brother." Mycroft locks eyes with Sherlock, penetrating bright blue to seastorm grey. "You are always at your most dangerous when playing the great game as a wild card, and I really need to know what you are up to."

"Not up to anything. You are being paranoid again."

"That is my function."

Mycroft Holmes sits back and forces his body to relax, to observe Sherlock and try to read him, even though his brain cannot quite get there yet. Sherlock has come back, looks the same, but is …not the person who left. Mycroft is still trying to learn the nuance of this new Sherlock, and is sometimes floundering.

Seeing his brother in too much pain and distress in Serbia has compromised Mycroft's objectivity as far as Sherlock is concerned. He knows this, recognises it with something like anger and dismay, knew it as he was making the decision to get involved and ride to the rescue, but still cannot quite manage to delete the agony he saw and still feels responsible for; even though he found Sherlock and brought him out. Saved his life, in fact.

Perhaps it would be better if they were able to discuss it. But the brothers do not share emotion, only encourage in each other a denial of this human foible. Get things off their chest, talk things through, agree to closure and moving on? Such horrible modern terms are anathema to both of them by personality and upbringing and now long habit. Mycroft has tried, in his own frigid way, to get Sherlock to talk about Serbia…but Sherlock not only refuses to discuss, but shuts down a steel safety curtain. No discussion, no admittance, no 'thanks for the rescue' or even admission that rescue was necessary.

Mycroft had worried horribly for the entire two years Sherlock was away, and still cannot get out of the habit. It had been concern as much as strategy and a new desperate need that had driven him out of the shadows and into Serbia to rescue his brother from captivity and certain death, and that had held it's own dangers for someone so high profile, so out of practise of being out in the field.

But there was also, as well as rescue, that need to have Sherlock back to solve the problems only Sherlock can handle. It was vital to intervene and haul Sherlock straight back home to solve the desperate urgency of the Gunpowder Plot. A dilemma and potential disaster greater than the human needs of either brother, as well as a desperate admission by Mycroft and his masters that there were and still are tasks only his little brother could undertake that he, for all his greater age, experience, objectivity and intellect, could not.

So once the danger and the angst of all that was over he had anticipated a hiatus of peace and respite for them both. But perplexingly that had not happened.

John Watson's response to his best friend's return was not as welcoming as predicted, and it was clear to Mycroft that neither man was the same as they had been; singularly and to each other. Watson had crawled out of his depression over Sherlock's apparent death to move from Baker Street, get a proper job, find a woman to marry; he had moved on. And in ways and with attitudes that could not have been anticipated.

Sherlock had moved on too. But not, Mycroft was convinced, in a good or a healthy way. If there ever was anything healthy about Sherlock at all.

He would have preferred to not have stepped in to rescue Sherlock from Serbia. He did not want, and had certainly not needed to see for himself, the damage done to his brother, nor to recognise how fiercely Sherlock still carried that damage. The knowledge of his little brother's physical and mental scars demoralised and threatened to deflect him, as he had feared they would; a knowledge that could now never be denied.

After the deprivations of the two year exile and coming home, Mycroft would then have preferred to have hospitalized his brother to be assessed and recover from the extremes of physical and mental damage endured over the past two years, and then convalesce. But the Gunpowder Plot threat had been urgent, shattering. It had demanded Sherlock's attention immediately and without quarter, and recovery time for Sherlock was both an indulgence and a luxury they simply did not have time for.

Drugs Mycroft had always abhorred his brother using and abusing in the past had now been forced into play to keep the machine that was Sherlock Holmes functioning and thinking. Mycroft saw the irony of that, but there was no choice. As a result some sort of collapse afterwards, if only the pain of withdrawal, was clearly going to result.

And yet Sherlock, always unpredictable, had not imploded, broken up or melted down as anticipated. He had just…kept going. And so Mycroft had watched, and waited with bated breath, and even though this was Sherlock, he still expected some normal human reaction, some failure of his brother's resources, at any time after so much pressure. The longer it did not happen the more uneasy and fearful Mycroft became. Anticipating it.

"Then go and function elsewhere."

"What are you up to, Sherlock?" The question was asked so softly Mycroft hoped it might lull and reassure his brother. One could only hope, sometimes.

"None of your business. Not working for you."

Mycroft listened and watched. Short staccato sentences were always a bad sign. And Sherlock's left thumb was stimming at speed across the mid joint of his first finger, a tell of stress and impatience. And his eyes….

"Sherlock. Honestly, now. Are you heading for melt down?" he asked very softly, his voice barely above a whisper, determinedly neutral. Not probing, not judgemental.

"Of course not. Why ever should I be?"

"Because - and remember I am the person who knows you better than you know yourself - you have been under duress for an unnaturally long time. And because you have not blinked. I don't think you have blinked since you sat down…."

His brother smiled, shook his head.

"Oh, I see. You are simply looking too hard, brother mine. Not blinking while concentrating on your opponent is just something I learnt while away. Part of a little known Filipino martial arts technique called Arnis di Mano; I prefer the open hand psychological form of the art. As you now observe."

Mycroft frowned. He was not sure if his brother was joking or distracting. Diplomatically, he opted for taking the statement at face value.

"I did not know you went to the Philippines while you were away. Nor why you always treat me as your opponent."

Sherlock merely smiled slightly, tilted his head.

"Are we done?"

Not rising to the bait was seriously worrying. Mycroft was feeling scared now. He needed to push, see if his brother had limits he could reach and use as markers.

"No. Why was Lady Smallwood here last night?"

Something changed in the atmosphere, and not for the good. Mycroft sensed it. His brother casually shrugged.

"A social politeness. She came to see if I was well." Sherlock finally blinked, dropped his head, but his expression, and his concentration on his brother's face, did not waver. "Was that not kind of her?"

"Lady Smallwood does not make polite social calls. Neither is she kind," Mycroft replied. "There is something going on here. And I need to know what it is. What is going on, Sherlock?"

"Absolutely nothing at all. I suspect she felt guilty…." he paused. "you know….about my two years of adventuring. And to her advantage when all's said and done, yet without me even having the safety net of the British Government to land on if necessary.

"And then of course there was her part in helping to push me beyond endurance to solve the Gunpowder Plot for you. Guilt." He tilted his head. "Do you not also feel some guilt about that, brother mine?"

"Hmn…." Mycroft was not about to admit anything, but recognised enough truth in that statement -or at least a part of it - to ring true. But he had no intention of being contrite or feeling guilty about his role. Sherlock was Sherlock, and necessity was so often the lesser part of destroying evil. Especially when considering Sherlock was always at his best when pushed beyond normal levels of endurance; it was a true yet disturbing fact of life.

But Mycroft was not going to be sidetracked by his brother either. "Guilt is not a weakness I feel nor could indulge in. Needs must. You know that. But if I find you are lying to me, Sherlock…"

"There will still be nothing you can do about it."

Mycroft Holmes felt something in his heart twist as he recognised the harsh yet inexorable truth of his brother's words. That was always the most awful paradox of trying to look after his little brother; his singular ability combined with his total disregard of himself or anyone else. It had always been the same.

Sherlock Holmes proffered the manic, over emphatic smile he normally threw at minions, and Mycroft stifled what he really wanted to say - _pointless with Sherlock in this mood -_ and limited himself to a worried and exasperated comment.

"I am watching you, Sherlock," he warned, and glared at the resulting eye roll. "But I cannot help you unless you let me. And help me to help you."

He did not say how worried he was, how much his instincts screamed a warning at him that his brother was walking along a cliff edge of control and process. Should never have pushed him so hard to solve the Gunpowder Plot, his instinct screamed at him; should never have let him loose afterwards; should never have…..

"Delightful thought, but so off-putting and sentimental. Now go. I have things to do."

o0o0o0o

"Sherlock Holmes for Katherine Haig."

She came running at the summons from the reception at CAM Media headquarters inhabiting a super modern tower block in Docklands, a girlish smile and unguarded enthusiasm dressed in a cool grey business suit.

"Sherlock! How lovely to see you!"

Her hands came out to him in greeting, but he ignored them. He did not smile either. This was not friendship or empathy, this was transaction. An interview that would bring him into the heart of CAM headquarters, into the orbit of Charles Augustus Magnusson. He was the bait dangled at the end of the line. The hook to snag the big fish lurking in the depths.

"We have the use of the board room for the interview, if that is OK with you? Peace and quiet and great views of London from the 31st floor…." she chattered away, giving her mind no room to register how nervous she was now the time she had wanted for so long had come. She still did not quite believe he was here in front of her; quiet, impassive, apparently willing to take part in this interview.

She wore a pass round her neck on a chord; she held a temporary pass for him as well as a notebook and recorder. She kept smiling at him. Hopeful, helpful, couldn't help it. Felt like an idiot. Not for the first time in this man's presence; she should be used to that by now, she thought.

The huge modernistic space that was CAM News headquarters was all glass and steel and purposeful bustle. Escalators, rolling floors, curving corridors, electronic sensors and barriers. A secretive place dominated by technology despite the open look. Sherlock walked slightly behind her, missing nothing, assessing the protective measures in place to keep CAM private and secretive and out of reach to ordinary people.

He observed Kitty drift her pass and his before several security screens before reaching the glass walled and floored lift. Impressive to onlookers, but also cleverly transparent for security - no camera, device or person could hitch a ride on the lift without being seen. Options were closing down to ever make covert access here. This was the lair of a professional and mistrustful man.

As the lift rose rapidly and silently, Kitty gave a running commentary of the floors they were passing through - news gathering, TV studios, edit suites. He was in no doubt of the scope of the world media machine that was CAM and now understood more than ever the scope of Lady Smallwood's fears.

But there would be a way. There was always a way. It was just a matter of looking for it, locating it, finding how to utilise it. His concentration and his senses were at full stretch, with Kitty's commentary giving him a sense of the geography of the building and the mind of the complex secretive man behind it all.

"….This is the heart of the building, where Mr Magnussen has his own office and the boardroom; the only thing above this is his penthouse flat."

The lift slowed and stopped, and into the empty silence of the 31st floor they walked to the boardroom, all solid glass walls overlooking the city skyscape, cool blonde wood, a white board, viewing screen.

"Take a seat," Kitty offered. "There's plenty of choice."

Sixteen Bauhaus armchairs circled the oval table, and Sherlock took a seat in the middle of a long side, back to the door and facing the window. From that vantage point he could see the entire room reflected in the glass walls, could register the slightest movement.

He unbuttoned his coat but did not remove it and tilted his head to assess the room. He could hear the air conditioning clicking discreetly, another slight whirring sound; the communications system in the room set up and recording? Visuals as well as audio? He would have expected no less. He also had no doubt from her eager and open body language, that Kitty was totally unaware.

He leant forward, elbows on the table, ready to begin.

"Would you like me to order drinks or something?"

"I'm fine. Let's get on with it."

Now the time has come, her ambitions answered, Kitty Haig hesitates, unsure how to start. So she said so.

"To be honest, I don't really know where to start. Because you are such a full on enigma. I don't think there is actually a starting point with you."

He nodded. Recognising her honesty. But it was not his problem, so he remained silent. Waiting for her.

"So a simple first question, then: did you always want to be the world's first consulting detective?"

He took a deep breath. Here was the moment he had to be brave. Pretend honesty and an open heart; pretend to be normal. Do what he never did; talk about himself, reveal something about himself to another person. How Mycroft would scoff if he heard this…. He turned off that voice in his head.

To get through this he had to at least appear sincere, to concentrate on giving something, yet not too much. This was just another role, another pretence, all to achieve the end result. Deep breath and concentrate. Assume the role. Smile.

"Not always. All children have ambitions. When I was little I wanted to be a pirate. A champion horseman. A classical violinist."

"What happened?"

"I broke a wrist at a critical age. These things happen. So I became a chemist instead. But that was boring. Investigating crime wasn't boring."

"An unusual career when you have not been in the police. How did it start?"

"It found me. When I was a teenager I just happened to be around when a suspicious death turned out not to be murder. Obvious to me. One thing led to another."

"You make it sound so simple."

"It was. Is. It's just what I do."

He was being more honest than he had intended. But he could see Kitty was loving it.

"Does that make you a genius?"

"Not for me to say."

"Is that modesty?"

"No. Honesty."

"So. Honestly. What's it like being dead? And coming back. Not many people can say they did that."

 _Clever change of tack…_

"Being dead is hard work. Lonely. Disconcerting. Difficult. And coming back is even harder. I don't recommend it."

"Why?"

"Life goes on without you. And because you are not there and being a part of it, you don't realise this until after it has happened, only after things have changed."

"Regrets?"

No. Regrets are pointless. That was then, this is now. I did what needed to be done. I cannot talk about it for obvious reasons of national security. But I would do the same thing again. It's just part of the work."

"But the work took you away from your home, everything you know….isn't that scary?"

"That is what work does. I am not a child."

"Have you ever been a child, Sherlock?"

"Probably not."

"Does that worry you?"

"Why should it?"

"Most people would think that statement a bit sad."

"Only because they are sentimental."

"And you aren't sentimental?"

"No."

"Not even about John Watson, your flatmate, colleague, partner of sorts?"

She looked at him with a bland neutrality. He absorbed the shock of the question, looked back at her and mirrored her expression.

"John Watson moved on, has a new life. He has just married. "

"So the end of an era. How do you feel about that?"

"Life changes, that is part of the human condition. We originally met by accident because we both needed a flatshare, and for a time he was my assistant. I was the halfway point for him as he made the difficult transition from the excitement of war to the humdrum existence of a doctor. It was always going to be transitory. Surprising, really, we lasted as a team as long as we did. I was his best man when he married, and I wish John and his bride well. Life moves on."

He had known this would be a question somewhere in the interview. He had scripted himself a logical response that was both credible and dismissive.

Kitty looked up at him and smiled, eyes warm and sympathetic. But he did not want her sympathy. He hurried on.

" All the newspaper headlines over the last few months say I have had a dramatic time of it. But that is over now. And before you ask - yes, I would do it all again, because that is my job so that is what I do."

Before she could ask him anything else and stray deeper into personal territory he rattled off stories of some cases - funny stories, unusual cases, a little about the Gunpowder Plot. Was absorbed and confident now, leading the interview, saying exactly as much or as little as he wanted. Smiled at Kitty and charmed her into listening rather than questioning.

Her recorder light ran on, and he could still hear the external sound system humming.

He didn't forget what he was saying, never ceased to be careful. Waited for another question from left field.

"You are a very handsome man. There was a lot of speculation about you and John Watson. What do you say to that?"

"Boring. I don't consider myself to be handsome, and John and I were never attracted to each other. Not our natures."

"So what is yours?"

 _Clever girl! Won't get you_ anyw _here, though….._

"Private."

She smiled at him for manoeuvring a double meaning - touche, her eyes said.

"Do you understand why people are fascinated by you?"

"No. That's a bit sad for them, isn't it? There is nothing fascinating about me."

"Oh, you are too modest, Mr Holmes."

The new voice was lightly amused, male and assured.

Through the reflection of the glass wall Sherlock Holmes watched Charles Augustus Magnussen enter the room and focus upon him.

Tall, lean and slightly stooped, early fifties, with thinning and greying short sandy hair and a goatee beard, wire rimmed spectacles, expressionless pale blue eyes and a naturally immobile face. He wore an expensive Westwood suit with style.

"Oh, I am really not." Sherlock pulled a breath. "Good afternoon, Mr Magnussen. I wondered if we would meet."

Sherlock's voice was genial, controlled. He had expected this. He had hoped Magnussen could not resist making an appearance.

"How could we not, Mr Holmes?" The icy charm in Magnussen's voice would have chilled and drawn in a lesser man. But Sherlock's chin rose imperceptibly to meet the challenge Magnussen was throwing down. "This building welcomes some of the most famous and acclaimed people in the world within it's walls. But there is only one Sherlock Holmes. Yes?"

Magnussen paced slowly round the boardroom table, running a nonchalant hand casually along the backs of all the chairs as he passed them. His hand, in the same unhurried fashion, ran along the back of Sherlock's chair as part of the same unbroken movement.

But only Magnussen and Sherlock knew that the media mogul lifted his little finger to scrape the nail sharply against the tender skin at the back of Sherlock's neck. Braced, Sherlock neither moved nor reacted to the surprise nor the distracting flicker of pain of Magnussen's movement, but he caught a tight small smile from Magnussen's reflection through the glass in return.

"It is very pleasant to see you here, Mr Holmes. I hope you are finding your interview with Mrs Haig an interesting experience? She has wanted to meet you again for a very long time. It was very kind of you to grant her this interview -" he paused, crafted a smile he pushed in Kitty's direction and patted her hand in passing as he started a second circuit of the table.

Sherlock knew Magnussen was heading for him again, oh so casually. But he did not sit forward and away from the secretly tormenting hand, but just waited, not acknowledging the predator moving behind him. A shark, he thought, circling and preparing to strike.

He risked a glance at Kitty who was watching them both, deferring to her employer but not comprehending what was happening before her eyes - the very male challenge for superiority that was being silently addressed without any acknowledgement whatsoever from either man.

"It seemed appropriate. Kitty and I had not spoken for a very long time. You might even say there was unfinished business between us."

Sherlock smiled at Kitty, and she immediately smiled back. Magnussen frowned at them both. Continued his narrative.

"Ah, yes. That little spark of contact between the two of you before you appeared to die. A very clever trick, Mr Holmes. A wonderful scheme. A spark fanned into flames today, however. Most bonfires begin as a single spark and then grow. Do you not find that is so?"

He smiled. Sherlock listened, still impassive, but warning bells rang in his head. Was that just a coincidental choice of words? Or did he know that Sherlock had been vexed, tested, puzzled, by a bonfire? The bonfire that had almost consumed John Watson?

"Bonfires can get out of control. I never trust them." The declaration was cool and disinterested. "Nasty smelly things."

"Oh, I agree. But so essential to destroy all sorts of rubbish, yes?. Yet it is also true one must be careful with bonfires. Bonfires can burn so easily, burn the heart out of you. Everyone wants a flame in their heart, but no-one wants to get burnt. Get their fingers burnt. One of life's little ironies, yes?"

 _I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you._

 _John Watson is quite the guy_

 _Move! Move! John! John!_

"Quite so," Sherlock kept his voice soft and casual, but a deeper trickle of reaction curled between his shoulder blades. That phrase. Moiriarty's phrase…..how would Magnussen know it? Use it? Or was it just coincidence? Could he really believe there was no link between two master villains? That the universe could really be so lazy?

This second time the finger exerted more pressure, the sharp nail dug down below the shirt collar; would have drawn blood if it could. Prepared now, Sherlock remained relaxed and immobile. To all intents and purposes he neither noticed nor felt the touch. Through the reflection his peripheral vision watched Magnussen give another slight frown, then lift his head a little.

"Napoleon was very sniffy about bonfires, you know," Sherlock offered conversationally. "There was a maritime legend in those days that if you set a bonfire on a ship it would make the vessel sail as and where you wanted against the wind. Napoleon said he had no time for such nonsense."

" How very interesting. A small man, Napoleon. In so many ways. Yet John Donne said love was joy's bonfire…"

"And there is also a saying that the bigger you build the bonfire, the more darkness is revealed."

"Quite so." Magnussen smiled, stopped his pacing, hitched a hip on the table between Sherlock and Kitty, turning his back on her, giving Sherlock all his attention blatantly now.

From his pocket he took a remote control and the screen clicked on. The film of Sherlock playing Le Clair two days earlier was before them, lifesize on screen.

"I think I must have viewed this twenty times. It is fascinating, Mr Holmes."

"You reached many platforms with that CAM exclusive."

"Yes, indeed. Thank you for it. Professionally profitable and an insight into the world's only consulting detective. Did anyone know previously that you are a violinist of concert standard?"

"Probably. It is not something I have ever made a secret of."

"Yet you are a secretive man."

"Am I?"

Sherlock relaxed and smiled. Not the reaction Magnussen had been expecting.

"You are Sherlock Holmes. You are famous. Yet you remain such an unknown quantity. So I am interested in you, Mr Holmes."

"I am flattered. Am I flattered? Perhaps not. I am not very interesting I assure you. So what is it about me you could possibly be interested in?"

 _Dangerous leading question. Drop back, drop back…_

He could not be bothered to even give the appearance of being rude; his apparent disinterest in Magnussen's interest could not be more obvious, less assumed. Or more tantalising because of this to the man admitting interest in him. Reverse psychology. Playing the long game. Being his normal disassociated self.

"Interested in all there is of you. I have never had a detective before."

"You don't have one now."

Magnussen smiled then, leant forward and claimed possession of Sherlock's eyes and concentration. Sherlock resisted until he had made it clear to Magnussen that he was taking his time and only allowing himself to be looked into because he chose to allow it.

Their glances held for five full seconds. Then Sherlock casually shifted his eyes to the screen.

"I made a bowing error there. How very annoying."

"It must be. You are also a perfectionist, I see."

Kitty Haig watched, silent and uncomprehending. Something was going on here. Something monumental. Something male and assertive and predatory. She did not understand quite what. So she sat silent and watched the two alpha males in front of her, waited to see if the storm would break or pass.

"Well, this has been very pleasant, but I have things to do. Have we finished, Kitty?"

It took her a moment to realise Sherlock was speaking to her, turning all his concentration towards her.

"Yes! Yes, thank you. If I need anything else…"

"We shall be in touch," Magnussen completed her sentence for her.

"No problem," Sherlock reassured, standing to leave. The two words had a complexity of meaning. He buttoned his coat, flipped up the collar, held a hand out to Kitty and courteously dropped a light kiss to her fingers with studied old fashioned courtesy. She smiled warmly and honestly at him, and caught the wink he flickered into her eyes alone.

"So heartwarming to see such public school old world manners, Mr Holmes," Magnussen purred. Making it sound like a weakness, an aberration.

Sherlock quirked a tiny smile at Kitty to make it seem as if they had connection, damped it down, straightened and turned to Magnussen with no expression whatsoever. Offered his hand to Magnussen with the same particular and studied courtesy. It was laughable if Magnussen considered public school good manners a weakness.

The two men were tall, of similar leanness, with similar veiled eyes. Magnussen accepted Sherlock's contact with a hand that was indeed too warm, too damp, but delivered a strong and sinewy grasp regardless.

"Good afternoon, Mr Magnussen. Please continue to enjoy the Le Clair. Perhaps we shall meet again."

"Without a doubt. I look forward to it."

Threat or promise? Sherlock was not sure.

Kitty opened the boardroom door.

"Let me show you out."

He followed her along the corridor, aware of Magnussen's eyes on him all the way, his senses over alert, his instincts jangling. The need to think and to analyse the past few minutes. The undertones beneath the politeness; the fingers on his neck that repelled him.

"Are you OK?" she asked as they waited for the lift. And he turned slow eyes to her, his expression blank.

"Of course. Thank you for asking."

As the transparent glass lift started to move with slow courtesy they both looked to the left, attention snagged, to see Magnussen running lightly down the stairs alongside the lift shaft, back down towards his office level. Watched him pause on the half landing to talk to a tall striking girl with thick dark hair hugging an armful of files.

"Who's that with Magnussen?" Sherlock asked.

"His PA, of course," Kitty replied. Wondering why Sherlock was smiling now, and still smiling as he left her and walked out onto Canary Wharf.

TO BE CONTINUED

 **Author's notes:**

NB: Sherlock's backstory here is compliant with that created by the inspirational Sevenpercent. Not to be sycophantic. Just because her back story is perfect and incomparable and it seems wrong to subvert it! Thank you, Sevenpercent!

The final scene of this chapter is inspired by a short deleted (written only) scene with Magnusson and Sherlock cited in the Sherlock Chronicles BBC book, and the very creepy deleted HLV scene (filmed) between Magnusson and Sherlock in hospital after he is shot, and contained on the Series 3 Special Edition DVD and also available on YouTube


	5. Chapter 5

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 5: "…Shattered …"

Discomfort brought him round, finally. He was sitting propped against something, he knew. But he was so cold and so wet, and he was numb from the waist down. It was raining hard, and he realised he was sitting outside - although he had no idea where. The old waxed coat was soaked through and no protection any more, and the thornproof jacket beneath stuck to his shoulders and arms, his cord trousers wet and clinging to his legs. He was shuddering with cold, and his face, pressed against the sharp brick corner of a doorway, hurt where he was leaning into the sharp edge.

He put his hands carefully down to the ground from his lap and realised he was sitting on a stone doorstep, the rain lashing against it and him, sharp wet pins beating against his face. He had no idea where he was; a city side street obviously, a street of Victorian terraced houses and hopefully in London. But he frowned as he puzzled this problem.

He had no idea how he had got there, had no memory of anything since stepping towards the ornate metal front gates of Appledore, Magnusson's country house in the Cotswolds. His throat was dry, and there was a metallic, chemical taste in his mouth and his senses were blurred. He had been drugged. Yes - but with what?

Taking a shaky deep breath he tried to rise, but his knees would not lock out or support him, and he collapsed with a crash against a black front door bearing a brass number 27. Groaned, cursed and tried again.

This time he hung onto the knocker attached to the letterbox, and got halfway up from his knees. Stopped to get his breath and stop his head swimming.

Tried to remember what had happened. Having decided to recce Appledore for himself, it had been a simple thing to dig out his old country clothes from the back of the wardrobe, leave 221B via his bedroom window to avoid the CCTV cameras, and take a cab to the Crouch End lockup where he kept various items of kit including the old green Land Rover with the new V6 engine.

Driving down into the Cotswolds, driving against the run of traffic, took less time than he had expected, and he was able to visit several vantage points to scope out Magnusson's country retreat, settled in a bowl of beautiful countryside just beyond Cirencester.

Rather like it's owner, the house was clinical, handsome, quietly expensive and utterly alien to it's surroundings; a slab of glass and steel that looked like some mutant engine part, with a helipad and surrounded by a lake and around twenty acres of unbroken grass protected by a deep and unbreachable ha-ha; security cameras surrounding the house implacable and unobtrusive.

As he had discovered from his careful observations, any attempt at covert entry would be impossible. So the other approach would have to do.

He parked the Land Rover beside an obscure and poorly executed Victorian restoration of a C14th gem of a church and walked cross country for a couple of miles, having secreted the keys in a secret cache behind a wheel arch.

He took the dog lead out of his coat pocket and strolled nonchalantly towards the high electric gates of Appledore and flipped the intercom switch.

The light tenor, slightly arch silly-ass voice he assumed declared: "Hello there! I've lost my dog - last seen chasing a bunny and running like billy-ho towards your house. Is he with you?"

A metallic click, and a tinny, uninterested reply: "No."

"Would you mind awfully checking? Only he is a slippery little devil and he runs really quickly….! So kind of you…."

A bored click of a tongue against the roof of a mouth. A barely civil: "Wait."

So he waits. A black Audi glides away from the house and rolls towards him, and an impassive middle aged man in a suit but with an incongruous silver pony tale alights. He comes to the gates, opens them a little with a remote control.

Sherlock smiles cherubically and opens his hands in a placatory gesture.

"Frightfully sorry to bother you…."

The old red rope halter that doubles in many country homes as a dog lead swings in his right hand.

"And what does this dog look like, sir?" The voice is polite, expressionless, a hint of Scandinavian accent.

"A red setter. Five years old, blue collar. Answers to the name of Redbeard. After the pirate, you know."

The man gestures to a tablet in his hand and beckons Sherlock closer. Sherlock inclines his head to look; a bank of security screens come into view on a relay from somewhere deep within the house.

"No dog, see?" says the man.

"He's a clever old boy; could well avoid any security cameras. Mind if I come through and just - you know - check for myself?"

He looks up and smiles and just catches sight of the oddly open right hand, the pointed capsule ready in the palm, a secret veterinary injector to be hidden in the hand and normally used to get close to and medicate over wary horses or cattle frightened by syringes; the glint of it is spotted - sensed - almost too late as he tries desperately to throw himself out of reach as the needle point scrapes along his neck yet sinks in as the pony tailed man moves faster.

"You really need to do better than that, Mr Holmes," says the man.

And then Sherlock is going down, the needle hurting, drawing blood because of the fumbled entry, the point sinking finally into his neck as he flails and fails to pluck it out and away.

o0o0o0o

He stands unsteadily now, both hands clutching the handle of the brass door knocker as if his life depends upon it. His body hums, his head hurts, lightheaded, hyper sensitive. He has double vision. He is desperately thirsty and….he doesn't smell like himself.

Not his usual herb and citrus Penhaligon shampoo and cologne; he smells …..antiseptically clean, something chemical, astringent, modern. Paul Smith, perhaps? Why? Why does he smell wrong? It doesn't make sense.

He clings to the door as his senses swirl, rock, settle.

Fragments of sensation, not memories. Sensations, not processed thoughts.

He remembers….well… what does he remember?

Vaguely recalls being picked up, dragged across gravel and thrown into the back of the car, finally tumbled out. Inside Appledore? Two men manhandling him into the house, up some stairs. The world spinning and going black.

Waking finally. After a fashion. Feeling warm and languorous. Ridiculously, unnaturally, relaxed, muscles pleasantly aching. Where is he? Who knows? Who cares? His face is pressed down into warm fur. He smiles a little. Redbeard snuggled up, is it? Redbeard has been in his mind again. Is he here?

"Redbeard?" he mutters softly. "Redbeard?"

A hand is pressing, not ungently, between his shoulder blades. A slim, cool, damp hand. Pressing into his naked skin. Naked? How…..?

"Ssshh," says the voice.

"John?" he whispers, too relaxed to put touch to thought to action.

"Not at all. Not your pet. But perhaps I should consider that mistake something of a compliment, Mr Holmes. Or should I call you Sherlock, now?" The voice speaking is almost amused.

Sherlock's instinct finally cuts in. Something feels wrong…..something has happened. He struggles to rise, to turn, but he is weak, uncoordinated, and the hand easily holds him down, keeping his face pressed into the fur rug. Reindeer, is it? Wolf? Not Redbeard, then. He feels tempted to cry in disappointment, disillusionment. How very feeble minded of him. Drugged. Yes.

"Ssshh, ssshh," intones the voice as if mildly amused. "Enjoy your little sleep? You are very atypical in your reaction to drugs. But I suppose you know that. Have to keep giving you a little top up to keep you where I want you."

"Wezzat?"

"Why, under my thumb, Mr Holmes. Where you belong."

Sherlock attempts to struggle, but has neither the strength nor the coordination and is furious with himself.

There is a dissonant thread of laughter behind him, as if laughter is alien.

"You move so beautifully, Mr Holmes. Such an appealing, ascetic body. Too lean for a Greek god, of course. But an athlete, perhaps? Triathletes are always long and lean. As are high jumpers. How very appropriate that thought is. Yes, you are for the high jump, my young man. In every way possible."

The laughter repeats, and Sherlock's skin crawls. The man holding him down so casually with one hand feels the shudder.

"Ah. A pleasant shudder of anticipation, is it? We hope not to disappoint. But I do not want you conscious and fighting me. Indeed not. I want you soft and biddable and compliant. Because none of those attitudes are you, and the very idea of experiencing such alien behaviour from you pleases me. Considerably."

Sherlock gathers himself in anger and fear, hunches upwards. Is shoved back down.

"Tut-tut, Mr Holmes," says the voice smoothly. "You are, to use a colloquial English term, being a bit of a prick." The laugh again. "Oh, you do so amuse me. So; a little prick to make the little prick behave himself, yes?"

The man behind him moves, and a hypodermic appears very deliberately in front of Sherlock's face. Sherlock snarls, angry, frightened, impotent.

"Do you know what this is?" asks the voice. "A little treat for you. But mainly for me. Now. The question is this. Where do I put a little prick to make a little prick behave himself? Oh, the beauties and the never ending variety of the English language, yes?"

The edge of the needle runs down his neck, across his collarbone. His body betrays him, flinches despite his mind trying to remain impassive, unreactive.

"Please do not bother to try to fight me. I will win. I always win." The needle slams inexpertly and painfully into his neck and something that might have been a scream escapes from Sherlock's throat.

"You may fear me. That is good," says the voice, starting to fade. "Now then, my Sherlock. Now another prick for you. Not so little….."

o0o0o0o

He throws himself back against the door, swallowing an impulse to vomit.

Nearly falls through and into space as the door is wrenched open inwards, only saves himself by spreading his arms wide across the architrave.

"Sherlock! What in God's name….?"

The voice is familiar as he tries to focus. Red hair, loose and wild around her shoulders. Huge, terrified blue eyes staring out from among the freckles. Lace nightie, pink dressing gown - brandished rolling pin.

"Bet you can't kill me with that," he points at the improvised weapon, giggles vaguely and clutches at Katherine Haig as the world spins.

"Sherlock!"

She puts her arms around him and his head flops onto her shoulder, too heavy to hold up.

"I thought you were a burglar. Then decided a burglar was making too much noise. Are you drunk? Hurt? How did you get here? I didn't even know you knew where I live…."

"I don't," he manages. "Where am I? Oh! Silly question."

As he turns he thinks he sees a flash of light, but he is too distant from himself to know or care much.

"For God's sake, Sherlock…." Kitty Haig hoists him into her arms, but he is too tall and long limbed to manage easily, or lift bodily.

"Let's get you inside. You're wet through. How long have you been sitting out there on my front doorstep?"

"No idea."

He lets her guide him into the hall (bare encaustic tiles, William Morris wallpaper, dado rail, Italian gilt mirror) and his legs are wobbly. Six effortful steps. She shuts the door with her foot and still has her arms around him. The knocker he had been hanging onto resounds in protest at being released.

"You'll get wet," he mutters. "I'm wet. Rain's wet."

"Yes," her breathing is laboured as she supports him. "Think I've noticed."

She props him against the wall, starts to struggle with the buttons and zip of the old waxed jacket.

"No!" he wobbles her hands away from him.

"Need to get you out of that coat. You're wet right through - right through. You'll catch your death of cold."

"Too mundane a fate," he snorts.

"Then take that coat off."

"Can't. Gotta keep it on."

"You are a bloody impossible man!" she protests. He looks at her. She is also wet now, from contact with him. The front of her dressing gown is sodden and sticking revealingly to her body. She realises this suddenly, steps away from him, drags the dressing gown collar high in an age old female defensive gesture.

"Not here to seduce you," he manages. "Clothes might carry evidence on them. Tha'sall." They look at each other, each pressing back into opposite walls across the hall, both of them embarrassed.

"Don't be silly!" she says, snaps back to practical reality. "At least come into the kitchen and sit down. Tell me why you are here and what I can do for you."

She realises he is not quite capable of moving under his own power, so takes his elbow and guides him through the house to the large stainless steel and whitewood kitchen. Guides him down into a Windsor chair by the still warm Aga.

Without asking she turns away from him to click on the kettle and select mugs, flick tea bags inside.

When she turns back her heart leaps into her throat. He is slumped to one side in the chair, eyes closed, arms flopped down over the sides, hands loosely clenched. She sighs and gently takes the sodden flat cap off his head, releasing a cascade of damp dark curls.

He looks impossibly young, now. Vulnerable, rather ill. She kneels in front of him, studying his face in a way she had never been able to, or dared to, before. Everything about him is too much, she realises - and this is the major part of his fascination.

Too thin, too pale, too drawn. His eyelids are blue veined, lashes impossibly beautiful, and fan a narrow clever face with high cheekbones and a bow of almost feminine mouth, hair unfashionably long with curls dripping in wet disarray across his forehead, and she resists the impulse to smooth the hair back. He should look alien, effeminate even. And yet she cannot think of any other man with such masculine, almost feral, power about him. He is, she realises, a true enigma.

She almost unconsciously dabs those dripping curls with a handy tea towel to stop the water running into his eyes, puts that day's _Daily Briefing_ in sections under his arms, his feet, as he and his clothes drip rainwater onto the quarry tiles of the kitchen floor.

She wipes his hands with another towel, to gather the wetness and dry them into some sort of warmth. Long, expressive ringless hands, veins standing out. She remembers seeing those hands dancing, making a violin sing. She dabs the cuffs of coat and jacket to stop the dripping water, pushes them back up his arms, and is startled and distressed to spot for the first time scars on his wrists, scars she realises can only have been made by restraints. She touches the shiny puckered skin tentatively, feels his rapid pulse, but he does not stir. Suddenly the sight of this damage he carries makes her realise with a jolt that his life and career is no jolly game of high adventure for a posh boy, but takes him into dark places full of real danger and pain.

It makes her look at him with new eyes. Empathise with his situation. This is no game of life that he plays. This is truth and ever present danger and potential death. She suddenly realises much, has new understanding of the strange behaviours, the habitual terse impatience of the consulting detective. Wishes she had seen this before she wrote her interview with him so she could have used that additional knowledge.

Then realised that to do so would have been a betrayal. And she would not, could not, have used this extra knowledge and shared it with the world. Something within her has matured, she realises, and accepts a new responsibility. And is oddly humbled at the thought. That she recognises this, and owes him at least that much consideration.

The kettle clicks off, and she turns away to make tea, taking a mug to him, shaking him gently awake and putting the mug into his hands. The new and oddly unfocussed expression in those pale eyes she has always found captivating and unreadable almost frightens her, but she keeps speaking his name softly until his eyes spark some recognition.

"Thank you."

He gulps the hot drink as if his life depends on it, and perhaps it does.

"Take your coat off now?"

"No. I said. Evidence."

"Of what?"

"Kidnap. Abduction…"

"Whose?"

Mine, of course."

He almost smiles then, observing the shock in her eyes at his words.

"Real life is a bitch, isn't it, Kitty?"

It is the first time he has called her that since before the Reichenbach Fall, and it makes her feel stupid, gauche, ashamed.

"What can I do for you, Sherlock?" she asks gently. "Anything. Please tell me."

"Phone….." he begins.

"Phone? Who? John Watson?"

"No!" the response is surprisingly vehement. "No. Molly…"

"Your girlfriend?"

He huffs, shakes his head. "More important than that." He giggles. She frowns then realises drugs are having their effect still.

He tells her the number, and she dials, waits for a reply. Waits a long time. It is, after all, very early in the morning.

"Hello?" wavers an uncertain voice, finally. Light, youthful, suspicious of a telephone call at 4.30am. As anyone would be, Kitty thinks.

"Molly?" Kitty asks.

"Er….yes. Who is that?"

"Kitty Haig. You don't know me. I have Sherlock with me. He wants to speak to you."

Molly makes no protest. So Kitty passes her telephone to Sherlock.

"Molly. It's me. Come and fetch me. Now. I'm at -" he looks up at Kitty, who mouths '27, Ison Street' at him - which he repeats. "Got that? Call at 221B for dry clothes and coat."

He listens to what she says to him and nods his head.

"And Molly; other things" He takes a breath, looks grim. Locks eyes with Kitty as if daring her to contradict him. "Evidence bags for clothes. Blood test kit. Assault kit." Pauses to listen to the girl on the other end of the telephone "Yes, that sort of assault kit. Laters."

He ends the call and wordlessly gives Kitty her telephone back. She can find no words either.

"Thank you." His eyes are not just unfocussed but tired now after too much concentration to appear his normal self to a girl called Molly. Despite herself, her heart goes out to him.

"How did you know where I live? How to come to me?" She works hard to keep her voice soft and lacking stress, although is not how she feels.

"Didn't. Don't." Shakes his head, thinks better of it.

"So how did you get here?" Gently, but still worried

"I - don't - know," slowly, painfully.

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I." he sighs. "Don't think they would dump me at home. CCTV cameras there. And too obvious. Need to get Jeanne and Raz to collect the Land Rover….." his voice wobbles to a halt, as if he cannot stop his brain working but the rest of his body cannot support it.

"Who are 'they'?"

"Dunno."

He looks, she thinks, very ill. She wants to touch his face, stroke him better. Wrap him in a warm bath towel and dry him. She dashes into the sitting room, takes a woollen blanket from the sofa and softly tucks it around him. He does not protest as he is shivering now, despite the warmth of the room.

"If you've got to be wet, let's keep the wet warm, shall we?"

She smiles down into his eyes, her face very close to his.

He hums in his throat, a sound that may be pain or appreciation, she can't tell.

"Sorry…." the word is no more than a whisper.

She is about to turn away when a hand flashes out to grasp her wrist.

"Get another job. Soon as you can. Promise me?"

She rips her wrist from his grip, frightened now.

"Why? And what's it got to do with you?"

"Can't tell you."

"Can't or won't?"

"Yes."

The enigma that is Sherlock Holmes closes his eyes. She is exasperated but not really sure he has a choice. For a moment she looks blankly at him, stilled and silent, then leaves the room to shower and dress.

By the time she is running back down the stairs there is a taxi at her gate, a shadow across the frosted glass of the front door.

Whatever she had expected of a girl who was adjudged more important to Sherlock Holmes than being his girlfriend, it was not the slight and very ordinary looking girl with long mousy hair scraped back into a rubber band now standing on her doorstep.

She wore an eclectic mix of practical jeans and cotton shirt, ethnic sloppy jumper and duffle coat, clutched an enormous shoulder bag - full of goodness knows what - and a black leather case.

She did not speak, but Kitty let her in with a smile and a greeting. Molly distractedly said:

"Hello." Then: " Sherlock?"

Kitty led her into the kitchen and stood back as Molly pursed her lips, put her bags down and shook Sherlock roughly by the shoulder.

"Wake up."

"Ahhh….." he stirred, smiled happily up at her as if through a fog. "Hello Molly. Kitty Haig, Dr Molly Hooper," he introduced them formally as if at a social event.

"Bloods," said Molly, and he moved to shrug one arm out of the old waxed coat, the tweed jacket beneath. She could see he couldn't manage, and without remark roughly tugged both coats off and put them into large plastic bags she then sealed. "Needs to be done as quickly as possible. Expecting any traces?" she asked briskly.

"Not sure. Need to check in case."

She bent towards him and began to unbutton his shirt, and Kitty watched with a helpless feeling of intruding on the man's privacy but not being able to tear her eyes away from the sight of him being so brusquely disrobed by a brisk and scarily capable young girl dealing with him as dispassionately as if he was a lump of meat.

For a moment their eyes met, and she was jolted by the blankness there. It was as if he had purposely closed down all his synapses, not wanting to be affected by the helplessness he knew he was experiencing.

He could not help Molly, a limp and uncoordinated marionette with cut strings. The shirt was also wet through and slithered reluctantly off his slight frame to take it's place in another bag. Kitty could not help but look, fascinated by the long lean torso, the porcelain pale skin, the involuntary shivering.

"Blood on that," Molly observed, looking at the shirt.

"Mine," he said.

They were being as clinical and detached as each other, despite Sherlock's lack of capacity, and Kitty marvelled at this. She watched Molly open the leather case and take out a syringe and vial, which she opened.

He held out an arm and she inserted the needle, drawing out the shining red liquid with a brisk detached precision from both of them that made Kitty feel vaguely nauseous.

"What am I testing for?" she asked as she busied herself.

"Multi screen. I can't be sure. GHD and ketamine for starters, don't you think?"

"Looking at your eyes - yes. Cocaine? Rohypnol?"

"Possibly."

"Can you get to the bathroom so we can do other tests?"

"If you help me."

"Ground floor shower room. To your left," Kitty directed, feeling helpless, surplus to requirements, an intruder on the unfolding scene in her own home. "Clean warm towels in there on the radiator."

"Thank you." Molly Hooper flashed her a smile as she hauled Sherlock Holmes to his feet and draped an arm over her shoulders. "Don't worry. He'll be fine. We've done this before."

"Clearly," Kitty managed.

She watched Molly Hooper prop him against the bathroom wall, return to the kitchen for evidence bags and the leather case which now contained, amongst other things, a vial of drawn blood and a used hypodermic. Molly shut the bathroom door on Kitty with an apologetic grimace, and the last thing Kitty heard, with a twitch of revulsion, was Sherlock groan and make a noise that sounded as if he was slithering down the wall to the floor.

Turning away all she could do was wash the mugs, set out fresh ones for more tea. Then sit down at the kitchen table and wait.

Events had unsettled her. Something had happened to Sherlock Holmes. She was not sure what, only that she did not like it and that he had been weakened and emasculated by it. His experience scared her, and the fact he had been abandoned on her doorstep scared her even more.

She did not know how she had been caught up in this. Being a journalist had been the only job she had ever wanted. Seeing news happen, being at the heart of things. Making a difference. She had made a difference to Sherlock Holmes's life - and not to the good. So she had tried her best to finally make it up to him when she had the chance. To write a feature that would show the unique brilliance of the man, make him real to the world. Not the fraud and shyster she had been tricked into showing him to be before. Before the Reichenbach Fall.

And he had - against all odds - let her do that. Did he have another motive other than letting her make amends? And what had happened two days ago between Sherlock Holmes and Charles Augustus Magnussen? Something had. The two had been sparring - battling - in a war of words and silences and attitudes that she had been unable to understand. Magnussen had been as smooth and unruffled as ever in his domain; it had been Sherlock - she was sure - who had been shocked, defensive, damaged, however hard he pretended the opposite.

And yet when the interview was over and they both left the room, took the lift down to ground level, it was as if Sherlock had been revitalised, energised. He had shaken her hand as he left her at the front entrance of CAM headquarters and he had been full of lightness and energy, almost ready to laugh out loud at her. A secret, mercurial man.

Now he came out of her bathroom transformed, dressed in a sleek Spencer Hart suit and open neck purple Dolce Gabbana shirt, freshly showered, clean dry and warm, and it was only the fair stubble and the hand he was putting to the wall to steady himself that revealed he was still far from himself.

Molly Hooper followed him out, gathering his bagged clothes into a large folding holdall, clipping shut her case.

Kitty made them all tea as they waited for Sherlock and Molly's taxi to take them to Baker Street, and they made stilted small talk as they waited.

Finally Kitty asked:

"Is anyone going to tell me what is going on?"

Sherlock and Molly exchanged glances.

"We are gathering data," Molly replied neutrally, with a shrug and then a smile. "Don't ask me - I'm only the scientist!"

"I will tell you when I know," Sherlock promised quietly. Which was all she could really expect.

"And I will let you have a copy of what I have written…" Molly promised.

There was a long silence as they all sipped tea until the taxi arrived. And then they swept out and were gone. Molly put all the baggage in the taxi and came back to help Sherlock down the two steps at the front door.

As they began to move away Sherlock turned back - an afterthought.

"I need to talk to you," he said, with something like his usual command. "I know about him, Kitty."

Kitty Haig felt her heart turn to stone.

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"Oh, please," Sherlock scoffed in a voice almost his own. "We _will_ talk. Later."

And then he and Molly were gone. Leaving Kitty staring after them with her hands to her mouth and a pain in her heart.

o0o0o0o

The silence in the taxi was deafening. There was nothing Sherlock and Molly could discuss with a driver in the taxi to overhear them, and it was not until they were in the privacy of 221B that Molly turned on him.

"What the hell is going on? Getting me out of bed to rescue you then start doing tests….?"

She was a small and indignant fury, and Sherlock could not stand the onslaught.

He dropped onto the sofa and muttered: "I don't know. No-one else I could trust. Sorry, Molly."

This was so unlike him she was immediately contrite.

"There's John. I should tell John…."

"No!" he made to sit up and clutched the sofa edge as the room spun. "Nothing to do with John. And he's on honeymoon….."

"I thought they were only going for a week….?"

"I treated them to an extra fortnight. My wedding present."

"Oh!" She dropped her bag and sat down on the coffee table in front of him. "OK. You were abducted, then. Drugged. Hurt? "

"Can't remember. Anything. Why we need tests. Check my bloods. Find what I ingested."

"I will do that today. And check over your clothes, although I suspect with the rain and such there won't be anything to tell."

"I agree. But wisest to know for sure."

"OK." She hesitated, then continued, embarrassed by the unthinkable, forcing the words out: "You think you were raped?"

"Yes," tersely.

"How do you know if you don't remember anything? Do you know the signs? How your body feels?"

"Knowledge." he ducks his head away from her. "Yes. And yes."

She stared at him aghast, and he could not meet her eyes or admit more. This was no new shame but always newly shaming. He heard her breathing snatch and he saw himself diminish in her eyes, but thankfully she said nothing, just leant closer in to him.

"Let's get your coat and jacket off. I need to check you more carefully."

He struggled to help her remove the garments, which she hung on their hooks in the hall, then sat silently back on the sofa beside him. She unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled up the sleeves because she understood he could not, and checked the veins on the inside of both arms. Ignoring older track marks she ran her fingertips gently across his cool pale skin.

"Hmn. New intravenous marks, Sherlock. Two; perhaps more if the same site was used repeatedly." She sat forward to get closer, breathed in his very air as she put a hand to his chin and turned his head from side to side, "Your neck is a mess. You've been injected in the throat - carotid artery - pretty amateurishly - three if not four times. Remember any of that?"

"Yes. Hurts."

"I'll run bloods. If you've been given 4 hydroxybutanoic acid then repeat doses makes sense, as it degrades very quickly in the system. Someone put you down and was determined to keep you down. How long were you missing?"

"Taken 3.35pm yesterday. On Kitty's doorstep 4am today. And no, I've no idea how I got there."

She nodded. Took his hand, checking his pulse. Steadying to normal now.

"The sooner I get to the lab and start checking, the sooner we will know. "

"Yes. Sorry, Molly."

"Stop saying that."

He heard her quiet anger, looked her full in the face for the first time that morning, and gave a puzzled frown when he saw shadows in her eyes. He did not understand why she was sad unless it was because she could not bear to see him now as the degraded, inadequate thing he truly was.

"Can't. Sorry I needed you," he said softly. "Sorry I trust you. Sorry I bother you. I wish I was the hero you want me to be. Sorry."

"You don't bother me. Or disappoint me. I just…." Words failed her. She could not bear to see him so vulnerable or so ashamed. She took his right palm to her lips and kissed it. Something she knew she would never have done if he had been himself. "It just hurts seeing you hurt. What is happening, Sherlock? This is scary. And not like you."

"No. Blame the drugs."

He captured her hand and held onto it. There was no way he could put words to what he was feeling, nor even to admit he was feeling anything. Looked at her blankly for a long time, as if making a decision. Levered himself up with immense effort, crossed to the table by the window and took pen and paper. Wrote something short, folded the paper, put it into an envelope and sealed it.

"Take this," he instructed, and she obediently put the envelope into her coat pocket.

"What is it?"

He hesitated for a beat. "If anything happens to me, ring the number on that paper. Say what has happened. Hand over responsibility."

"Sherlock!" it was a low yelp of pain and surprise.

"Molly. Something is happening. Something that may be more than I can handle."

"You can handle anything!"

"Oh, Molly." He shook his head slowly, avoiding her eyes. "Please understand this. I am an inadequate man. Not your hero."

"Stop that! And make it stop, Sherlock."

He shakes his head with exhaustion and deep sadness.

"Can't. Down to me. Always down to me. Too many people involved - will suffer - if I don't stop this. The greater good, not mine. Do you understand?

He was stricken by the pain in her eyes.

"Are you going to die?" she breathed.

"Not if I can help it. Not again." He quirked a smile at her. "Just ring the number. If something happens to me. If it gets too much."

"I already know Mycroft's private line. From when you were away…."

"Not Mycroft's number. And don't tell Mycroft. Not anything. Needs protecting from this."

She thought he was talking to himself, but he looked up. "If you hear - see - test - me for being back on drugs again. …lie for me. Whichever way I need the lie to go."

"Sherlock!" she hissed his name. "What is this all about?"

"Would tell you if I could." He gave a deep sigh "Go. Don't waste more time on me."

"Is it safe to leave you? You wouldn't be talking to me like this if you weren't….off balance," she observed. Watched his face twist in what looked like self disgust, and her heart went out to him, hating the impossible standards he set for himself. Not knowing what to say to help him.

"Yes. I just need to sleep it off. Regroup when we get the test results."

She stood up and gathered all her evidence bags around her, hugged the leather case to her chest.

"I still think you should tell John. Do you want me to tell him for you? Or Greg?"

"Shut up, do."

"If you need anything, ring me."

And then she was gone. The silence in the flat was palpable. He lay back and covered his eyes with his hands. It was all too much. He heaved a deep sigh and began the yogic deep breathing exercises that always calmed him.

He could just feel himself finally relaxing when steps could be heard in the hall.

"Sherlock, is that you? Where have you been? What's going on?"

He cranked his eyes open to see a tall and beautiful dark haired girl standing over him, dressed only in his blue second best dressing gown.

"Oh, hello," he said. "I had forgotten you were here."

TO BE CONTINUED…

 **Author's Notes:**

A ha-ha is a ditch that has an abrupt horizontal edge at one side (closest to the house) and then a sloping rise up from it's base to the parkland beyond. This provides an 'invisible' wall that allows unbroken views from a house whilst also proving a high barrier from beyond, too high to be breached. A feature of great English country houses. So the name is not 'ha-ha' as in a joke, but ''ha-ha' as in 'oh - I see.'


	6. Chapter 6

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 6: .."I was the match and you were the rock…"

Angelo Grimaldi gasped and almost sucked the coffee he had been enjoying up his nose. Shock gets you like that.

It was the sight of Sherlock Holmes entering his restaurant that did it. Not that Sherlock was a rare visitor. But he had never seen Sherlock appear with a woman before - and a beautiful young woman at that.

"Table for Holmes," Sherlock said to Angelo. Face blank and unreadable. As if he was an ordinary customer. Angelo smiled at him, eyes flickering to the girl in approval.

"Certainly, sir. The best table in the house."

He scuttled to Sherlock's side, leading him, quite unnecessarily, to the quiet and private table beside the front window. Sherlock's usual table. Angelo fussed with the chairs, seated the young lady with great care.

She beamed a smile at him, and Angelo was lost. A tall, striking brunette with bright intelligent honey gold eyes, admirable curves and a bewitching smile in a classically beautiful face. She wore an elegant black velvet dress. Close to the height and echoing the dark leanness of Sherlock, they made a handsome couple, and Angelo could not resist a huge grin.

Along with the menus Angelo smoothly produced a red candle in a Chianti bottle and lit it with a flourish.

"For a romantic mood…." he cooed. And ignored the kick Sherlock planted firmly on his shin. So just for good measure he went to the back of the bar and returned with a red rose in a small water bottle.

An earlier couple had left the rose. He had brought an engagement ring and a single red rose. She had refused both. Angelo had managed to catch the angry young man as he strode away to return the ring to him, but had forgotten all about the rose. Which had been sitting lonely and unloved on the bar for the last hour. Until now.

"For the young lady also. A special touch for Sherlock's lady," he murmured, presenting the flower with a flourish.

"Oh, Sherlock! How thoughtful!" The young lady had a delicious chuckle, and her eyes flashed. Looking down at the rose, she did not see the eye roll and the glare the consulting detective threw at Angelo. Angelo kept a straight face and departed until they had chosen from the menu. Head waiter Billy would take the order; Angelo was certain that for his well intentioned romantic mischief Sherlock would never forgive him.

He just wanted Sherlock to be happy. He owed Sherlock so much, the least he could do was help smooth Sherlock's road to romance; the man deserved something in his life other than work, and this young lady seemed so well suited to him. They looked such a handsome couple. He grinned and mentally hugged himself.

Music played softly, the quietly elegant Italian restaurant just round the corner from Baker Street was intimate and just busy enough for privacy in a crowd.

Janine Hawkins sipped her wine as they waited for their order to be prepared and regarded Sherlock Holmes over the rim of her glass.

"Lovely to see you again," she said. "I missed you at the wedding reception. Someone told me you left early….."

"Seemed appropriate. I had been far too visible; quite busy with the best man's duties, the speech, playing John and Mary's waltz….."

"Solving an attempted murder…" Janine prompted sedately. She was grinning at him.

"Yes. That too."

He arranged his face in a smile and wondered what he was doing here and how he was going to get through this evening. Wining and dining was a long way from his comfort zone, and wining and dining a young woman who was undoubtedly attracted to him was definitely taking him into new areas, and he felt utterly inadequate to undertake something that would have been so ordinary and enjoyable to anyone else.

But. But Janine had been Mary Morstan's chief bridesmaid at her marriage to Dr John Watson two weeks earlier. Janine had homed in and latched onto Sherlock at the event, with a mischievous invitation to sexual congress she soon reassured Sherlock was 'just messing' leaving him wrong footed, breathless and confused.

But she had turned out to be genuinely sweet and charming - as well as outspoken and feisty - and she had been undaunted by his dramatic solution in solving an attempted murder and had even been happy to take his arm and be at his side, his companion for the evening.

Sherlock had played the waltz he had composed for John and Mary's first dance together, and had tossed Janine his boutonniere afterwards. But afterwards - feeling flustered, vulnerable and so very alone - he had found her dancing with the geek from the reception, when she had merely smiled at him, made a thumbs-up sign and turned away. Everyone turned away from him eventually, he thought, and instead of stepping forward to do the easy, the practised, and socially adept thing, to cut in and claim her, he backed away and mentally berated himself for not having seen that this would happen yet again.

So after a brief alienated lost moment in time, stranded alone and floundering on the dance floor, he had looked round in something like panic, and had seen Molly with her Tom, Mrs Hudson laughing in a crowd, Lestrade deep in conversation with someone, John and Mary laughing together and so happy.

The sight of them all brought a grounding pain up into his chest. So he had withdrawn, as he usually did, and had backed quickly and silently from the room. He did not think he had ever felt so alone and so inadequate, so rudderless.

Without seeing or speaking to another soul he gathered up his Belstaff and Guarneri and strode out into the dark. The coat had swirled melodramatically as he pulled it tightly around himself - he had hoped that melodramatic flourish as he donned it would have been noticed by someone, would had brought someone running out to draw him back into the warmth and the company. But this had not happened, and he was childishly disappointed yet not surprised.

The unguarded wish that someone would rescue him from his isolation was pathetic. He berated himself for the momentary slide into the ordinary. Alone, always alone, he disappeared into the reassuring darkness at his end to his best friend's happiest day.

And now - here was Janine.

Sexual attraction and byplay were not part of his accomplishments or interests, but he had registered - how could he not? - at their first meeting that she was interested in him. For some reason she found him attractive, and was not shy about making him aware of it.

They had sat next to each other on the top table, best man and chief bridesmaid, during the speeches and the meal, and she had chatted and laughed, and had stroked his arm, touched his hand, leaned into him with an ease and charm he might have envied if he had known how to play that game, had been a sexual animal himself.

As it was her feminine self confidence vaguely troubled him, and although he did not doubt her transparency, he had no idea what to do about it other than ignore it. Teaching her to waltz in a quiet corner - just as he had taught John Watson - had been a quiet time of intimacy between them, and he was discomforted by her unabashed admiration, trust and partial understanding.

 _I wish you weren't….whatever it is you are._

 _I know…down, girl._

He would have forgotten her - could have forgotten her - until he had seen her earlier that day. On the steps between floors at CAM News, talking to Charles Augustus Magnussen. Being told by Kitty Haig that she - Janine - was Magnussen's PA. It was a connection too good to ignore. Not believing in coincidence did not mean coincidences did not happen, nor that they should then be ignored. Not when - especially not when - so much might depend upon it.

He had told Lady Smallwood what he would do. Get close to the enemy. Find out the character, the strengths and the weaknesses. It had been so easy to theorise at the time. Now? Dancing into some sort of intimacy with a hugely female female to achieve that promise? Dear lord.

Back at Baker Street he had hauled out the wedding planning details he had undertaken so diligently. And there were Janine's contact details. Before he could have second thoughts and talk himself out of such a dangerous task, he had rung Janine's mobile and invited her out to dinner that evening.

Quickly, before he changed his mind. Quickly, because he wanted to solve Lady Smallwood's problem. Quickly, because some instinct told him he needed this sorted before John Watson was home in London again; before John tried to get himself embroiled in this almighty mess Sherlock was attempting to address. Before he attempted once more to be part of Sherlock's life and work. Something Sherlock must avoid, must not allow.

At the back of his mind a little voice called out from a quiet corridor in the Mind Palace; the same little voice that kept trying to warn him about Mary Watson. A voice he was blindly, blatantly ignoring. Because John Watson deserved better than doubt from him. Because John Watson - and, by connection the new Mrs Watson - deserved his total trust. Regardless of his feelings, so mindless he was being to the call of his instinct.

He could not let his own doubts taint John's love for and trust of Mary. That too obvious instinct he felt would be interpreted by himself - by anyone and everyone else - as jealousy, sabotage, an attempt to undermine, to keep John to himself. And that must never be interpreted as such, must never happen. He had never resented a full life of his own for John Watson; had always known their partnership would dissolve, their friendship wither. Sherlock knew more people left his life than entered it, it had always been that way. He might regret it from time to time, but knew better than to ever expect anything else.

His friendship, partnership and the unique trust he had shared with John Watson had been deeper, more rewarding, had lasted and endured. But that did not mean he had ever taken it for granted, relaxed into it, or had expected it to last forever. That was the sort of mistake he never made. He did not ever want to deal with the damage getting too close to another human being would cause. He told himself that now, just as he had throughout his connection with John Watson.

 _All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

He never needed Mycroft to remind him of that. That was one of the first lessons learnt from childhood. And he never forgot any of them. They were what had made and shaped him, still insulated and protected him. Enough!

"I should never have wasted my time dancing with that geeky eejit," Janine confessed on a sigh.

 _What? What did she just say? Tune in…._

"Sorry? What?"

"I should never have danced with that dimwit. At the reception. I should have danced with you instead. Then we might have…..got to this…sooner."

Sherlock swallowed hard. This was progressing faster than he could process what she was saying and meaning.

"So why did you?"

"Because I could. Because he needed a breath of fresh air between his cringing little ears. And his girlfriend needing teaching a lesson about not taking even an eejit like that for granted." She grinned at him a little sheepishly, then her smile broadened. "I was being a bit of a vamp. I blame the champagne."

"Oh!" he replied on a breathless laugh. A touch startled by her sexuality and her honesty. He tried a knowing nod, and she laughed at him, reached across the table to put a hand over his. He resisted pulling away, remembering that the last person who had touched him like that had been The Woman. It was a strange memory to evoke…..

"Sherlock…." her voice was a low purr as she leant towards him. "Relax. I am not going to eat you. I like you. Too much, probably."

"I. Like. You," he responded. The words came out slow and rusty, as if he had never said them before.

"That's all right, then!"

She bent to her shrimp fettucine Alfredo, having joked when she ordered it as to whether Sherlock was also choosing food with garlic. He had not understood the joke, but said he liked garlic in food and had carefully explained the health giving qualities of the bulb, ordering broiled salmon pesto with garlic dressed roast red potatoes.

Eating sparingly and slowly as ever himself, he watched her eat, responding to her conversation rather than leading it, hearing her memories of the wedding, ("brilliant day, a wedding day to never forget") memories of her friendship with Mary (" we met through a friend on one of those girly spa days. She liked me and we seemed to get on well. But I was surprised and a bit flattered to be asked to be chief bridesmaid") her impressions of John ("Sweet, isn't he? He grows on you, nothing like as boring and conventional as he likes to pretend.")

She looked across at Sherlock, sharp and assessing, then added:

"Mary told me there is no-one like you. She adores you." He quirked his mouth in a half smile, but did not reply. So she gathered her courage and added: "She also tells me you are not in love with John."

"Not in love, no. Not what I do."

She ignored that, as it seemed such a ridiculous comment. So she spoke of her childhood in Ireland ( _Could she have links to Moriarty? Oh, don't be ridiculous! You are just over reacting and on edge! Get a grip!)_ how much she enjoyed living in London, her dream job as PA to Magnussen.

 _Ah. At last. Of her own volition…_

"Life is never boring. Hard work and long hours, but fascinating. I love my job - no two days the same."

 _And now the big question….._

"So; what's he like?"

She shrugged, wrinkled her nose.

"I've worked for him for three years, but it's still hard to say. He is a very private, self controlled man. Cool and contained. He relishes his world, and knows exactly what he is doing," she nibbled on a bread stick, thinking.

"I wouldn't like him to turn his laser light on me. He says he is a businessman - just a businessman. But he really is the perfect multi media magnate. He knows everyone - who they are, their links and secrets. He likes his influence on the world - relishes having fingers in pies, taking control, seeing everything before him as if he is an X ray machine.

"Don't get me wrong; he is good man to work for - hard but fair. But I have no misconceptions about him. I think he can be totally ruthless. He likes to know everything about everyone, and he doesn't delegate.

"That must be hard for you?"

"Not really. I just do the logistics around him. He does the rest. He is a one man media machine, really. And he is intensely secretive. If you think he knows everything there is to know, it is because he does. I don't know how he remembers so much. Asked him once.

"He just grinned at me and said he keeps very thorough records - would I not think he had everything in files as hard copy, facts and photos and lists - nothing trusted to computer systems because computers can be hacked. He has huge vaults full of secrets, he told me. Deep and impenetrable. That's what he said. Laughed about that, so a bit impressive, wouldn't you say? At his country home in the Cotswolds - his bolthole."

"Well, I suppose everyone must have one. Not his penthouse at CAM News?"

"Oh no, a huge modern mansion near Cirencester. It's called Appledore. Cost £11 million plus. And all for him, all on his own."

"No wife or children, then?"

"I don't think love and affection have any place in his psyche."

"Like me, you mean?"

"No. Not like you at all." she leant towards him again. "Your problem is you have so much heart in you that you have no idea what to do with it. You think most people are rather dim children to be looked after and protected. Magnussen, however, thinks most people are morons. One of his favourite words."

"Ah."

There was no reply to that. But he took the facts he needed into his Mind Palace. Realised he needed to see Appledore as soon as possible. Test it's defences. See what he could find, if Lord Smallwood's indiscretions were easily to hand, removable, at the top of some pending file. Tomorrow? Go there tomorrow? Yes. A trip into the countryside and a recce at Appledore.

He now knew the where, the what, the when - and almost the how.

 _Thank you, Janine. You can go now. Or perhaps we should keep in touch and you can tell me Magnussen's movements and focus for the time being? Just so I always know. Until this thing is over._

They completed their meal with classic panna cotta with dark chocolate sauce. But when Billy offered coffee to conclude, Janine declined.

"I am sure I can have coffee at Sherlock's place," she responded smoothly, watching his eyebrows rise. Then qualifying it: "While I wait for my taxi home."

Billy looked neutrally at Angelo, and Angelo tilted his head, with a smile he could not hide, in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock glared at him but Angelo held his eyes until Sherlock was forced to allow one of his rare tiny sweet smiles in return.

As far as Angelo's expert eye was concerned, the evening had been a huge success, and it seemed not finished yet. He was delighted. The attention of a beautiful girl was just what Sherlock needed, he thought.

The bill settled, Angelo ushered them out, all attentive restaurateur.

"We hope to see you again!" he called after them as they turned right and walked down the street into the night, in the direction of Baker Street.

The beautiful young lady turned and gave him a happy wave. Sherlock did not turn and made a rude gesture with one hand behind his back. Angelo laughed out loud and went back to work. Being a restaurateur and an old romantic was delightful, he thought.

After walking some yards in silence, Sherlock spoke as if to midair:

"I can hail you a taxi as we are walking, you know."

"I know." She took his arm nearest to her, hauled the hand from the Belstaff's pocket, and tucked the arm she now possessed around her as they walked. Sherlock did not resist. "But I really would like coffee at your place."

Ten strides later a remote voice replied:

"I can offer you five different types of coffee. Or instant, even." Then, after a lengthy pause: "I have always understood the phrase 'come up for coffee' to be a modern euphemism, an invitation for sex.'" He said the words dispassionately and without inflexion.

"Yes, I had heard the same thing."

She matched his tone, working hard not to laugh. She could not believe his pretence of naivety; surely he was playing a role, teasing her?

With each silent step, Sherlock was increasingly confused. How to address this? Janine was a sexual animal and clearly felt that he was too? Despite his behaviour? He did not want to make her angry, make her stride away from him - he needed the intelligence she could give him about Magnussen. But this was promising to be difficult. He had anticipated this, but then decided as the stakes were so high it was a bridge to cross only when he arrived at it. So now he had arrived.

Should he be his normal superior and sarcastic self? He did not think this would impress or deflect Janine; she seemed a very modern woman, well versed in dealing with predatory or patronising males. So perhaps the ingenuous innocent would be the best role to adopt? The one that would bring out Janine's soft and gentle side, even though it could seem too exposing of himself?

He took a deep breath and just kept walking. Janine kept pace with him, waited patiently as he unlocked the big black front door of 221B, led the way up the seventeen steps to his home.

Opened the door with a flourish, remembered opening it with a similar flourish on that first evening to John Watson. Watson had said 'could be very nice' but Janine dropped her pashmina and clutch bag onto the back of John's old armchair, looked round and said:

"Cosy. Bit of a scuzz dump, though. Typical bachelor pad."

"It suits me," Sherlock defended through clenched teeth.

"I see that. Why don't you go better and bigger?"

"It suits me," he repeated. "I don't need anywhere larger just for me. It is central and the landlady is an old friend."

"Not complaining, Just asking."

He took off the Belstaff and was hanging it up when he felt her arms twine around him.

"No," he said, pushing her hands down and away. But she gently turned him to face her, standing there in the hall, and put her arms back round him.

"Sherlock…."

"I can offer you coffee. Jamaican Blue Mountain, Concepcion Pixcanya, Dominican Republic Castiza, Celebeo kalora tarajn, Guatemalan Maragogye. I recommend the maragogye - a mellow coffee for connoisseurs."

"Yes, Later."

She lifted herself onto her toes to reach his lips, but he did not bend down to reach hers.

"Janine…." his speech stuttered to a stop. She threaded the fingers of one hand into his dark soft curls and eased his face down to hers. He did not resist, but did not encourage. She could smell the crisp cleanness of him, his Penhaligon Douro lime based cologne, and inhaled the essence of him with a sensual pleasure.

He saw her reaction. Those pale and fascinating eyes glittered down at her. She saw something moving behind them, something she did not recognise, so peered closer to try and read his reaction, fascinated by the intense dark pupils, the brown fleck over the right iris she had only just noticed. A wonderful and charming imperfection on such an imperious, precise man, she thought.

Half a step closer and now pressed hard against his slim warmth. She put a hand to his chest, wrapped her hands behind and around him and smoothed them sensuously down his muscular back.

She heard him snatch in a harsh breath, and smiled against his shirt. Not impervious, then. He should have put his arms around her in return now. But he didn't.

"Hold me, Sherlock. I won't break."

"I….might… I…..can't… do this, Janine."

His voice was as she had never heard it before; tremulous, almost childlike and hesitant.

"Stop messing, Sherlock. Just kiss me."

She put her lips to his, something she had wanted to do ever since she had seen him at the church, slim and elegant in his morning suit, so tall dark and handsome he was almost a cliché of the desirable male.

His lips were as warm and kissable as she had imagined, and she moved her mouth gently against his, closed her eyes. He did not open his lips to her, or put his hands on her, still did not curve into her as she wanted, would have expected. Opening her eyes, seeing his blank expression, she touched his cheek with gentle fingers.

"What is it?" she whispered.

He looked down into her face and she saw something was wrong.

"I am….I don't…." He swallowed hard, looked away from her. "I am … shy. Without experience. Don't laugh. I- I don't know h-how to do this."

"What? Are you telling me….? Now you really are messing with me. Someone as gorgeous as you? You have no….? Are a…..? In this day and age? Seriously?" She was astounded, but not even thinking of laughing. Still whispering.

His mouth moved without speaking words, and she could - she could barely believe it - she could see tears in his eyes.

"People - women - do not find me gorgeous. You may think I am gorgeous, but that's only because you are gorgeous. Mostly I just - repulse people. So I….repulse people. Frighten them away. No-one has ever dared…wanted….so I don't…"

He shakes his head and watches his reflection in her eyes. Is this too much? For both of them? How is she going to react to this?

"Don't laugh. I can't bear it." He sighs, turns his head away as if ashamed.

"We can fix this. Let me help you."

She pushes his face gently so he has to look at her.

"You don't understand. I have issues."

"Axe murderer of a former girlfriend?" she begins jokingly. Then with more comprehension: "Asperger's? Autism? That sort of thing?"

"That sort of thing."

She stands and looks at him, assessing.

"There is nothing wrong with you love and understanding cannot change," she declared, almost fiercely. Then she sighed. "Has no-one really ever loved you, Sherlock? Never made you feel worth the effort?"

He did not reply, but looked away as if ashamed, as if humiliated by her empathy.

"How do you bear it?"" she breathed.

He turned away from her.

"Coffee!" he said and she watched him go into the kitchen, busy himself with taps, percolator, coffee tins, cups. She leaned against the door jamb, saying nothing, just watching him calmly. This handsome, complex, frightening mystery of a man. A mere child at heart, a baby. Who would have thought it?

He poured coffee, offered her cream and sugar, handed her a cup. She took it and met his eyes.

"You telephoned and suggested we meet. So you cannot be immune. You must want to….grow. To take part in an adventure."

 _Oh, Janine. Grow up. Put away your romantic notions. I want your knowledge, not your heart. Your news, not your body. Just your words, not your touch. God help me. The tentacles of female vanity. A woman's instinct to touch and give love and healing. To be taken advantage of. Throughout history…_

"Hmmn _."_

"Sherlock _._ I will be honest. " She started drinking her coffee where she stood, looking at him. Just looking, and eating him with her eyes. "I could have you here and now. On the sofa, the floor, in your bed. Any of them. All of them. I could seduce you right now. I would love to. Do you understand?"

He nodded, and she saw he could not trust himself to speak.

 _The Woman had said much the same….._

" But there is more to this - for you. You need…something else. Something you never had, never get. Gentleness, Sherlock. Confidence, calm, softness. Love not lust. Passion, not possession. Do you understand me?"

"Yes."

She put the cup down, leaned forward to put a cool kiss on his cheek.

"I'm going to go now. This is a long game we are playing now, Sherlock. You and me. And I think after tonight, seeing a little bit of your soul, I am probably the only person who knows what you are really like."

She cupped her hands gently round his face, put her lips to his and tugged his bottom lip softly with her teeth.

"Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. This is slow and careful progress, little one. Like gentling a pony," she whispered into his mouth with a smile. "Or perhaps a pure bred stallion."

She pulled away from him, making her reluctance clear.

"Will you be here tomorrow? If I come back tomorrow night?"

"Yes," he said. Then: "I will be away working tomorrow. Not sure when I will be back. Get my landlady to let you in, make yourself at home. Wait for me if you choose. My bed is comfortable, should you need it."

"With or without you?" she teased. He smiled tremulously at her, finally, and she was content.

"See you tomorrow, then," she promised, her voice light but committed.

And then she was gone.

He slumped into a chair and put his head back. Closed his eyes. Found he was still holding a cup and saucer. Flung them at the wall, where they broke and streamed dark brown liquid over the dark brown wallpaper.

o0o0o0o

So now, a day later, here she was. She had come, as she had said she would, and she had stayed all night without - despite - him.

"You OK? Did I hear voices?"

She reached down and touched his shoulder. He would have to tell her he disliked being touched…when he felt well enough to do so. Although perhaps she would not like or understand that? The room was moving without him, walls and floor oscillating like waves, and he felt vaguely nauseous, humiliated, deathly tired.

"Colleague. Dropped me off. Been working. All night."

"You look it. Shattered. Do you want tea?"

He shook his head.

"Then come to bed. It's still early. Time for a couple of hours sleep before I have to go to work."

She saw his reluctance and sighed.

"Just sleep, Sherlock. I'm not going to jump on you. You are worth more than that. Right time, right place. And that's not now."

So, despite himself he let her draw him into his bedroom. The only other woman who had ever occupied his bed had been The Woman. And then on her own, thank you very much.

 _For God's sake! he did not want those memories in his head! Go away, I'm busy!_

The elegant brunette looked levelly at him and disappeared back into The Mind Palace.

He sat on the edge of his bed and toed off his shoes. Almost too tired to make the effort to lie down, he could have slept just as easily sitting up, his arms braced against his knees and his head hanging. Too self conscious as well as too tired to undress. But Janine did not comment and seemed to understand.

He felt the bed -his bed - sink as Janine got into the other side, naked and unselfconscious without his dressing gown now, and he felt totally disorientated at this, even when she tugged him down onto his pillows with one arm and flicked the duvet over them both with the other.

"Hush now," she said. "Go to sleep."

 _Hush now. I'm just returning your coat…._

And he did sleep, having turned resolutely away from her naked warmth and taken back his arm to hug it into his chest. The needle marks on it still hurt, had made bruises. Least of his problems.

He had gone to Appledore and made a terrible mistake by doing so. But he could not for the life of him remember what it was. Or what had actually happened to him. He remembered trying to skitter away as the concealed needle went for his throat - and not managing to escape.

He remembered woolly thoughts and impressions that would not focus. A fur rug. Being naked. The touch of strong sinewy hands. Of being spoken to like a child; in a way he had not been spoken to when he had been a child. Physical stress of a kind he had not felt for years. Violin music. A hot bath and the smell of pine bath essence. Sinking into and rising up from patterns of deep drugged sleep. Of lacking speech and coordination and self control. Of sitting on Kitty Haig's doorstep and feeling weak and ill and defeated. And oddly humiliated in a way he could not define.

He must talk to Kitty Haig; There was something about her she had not told him. Something he had deduced. Something that might be important.

Feeling as if his brain was about to explode he let go of it all because he no longer had a choice. He fell into blackness, hurtling past his Mind Palace, and dreamt about bonfires and lost dogs and fur clenched in his hands. About fighting fog, about Watson and Magnussen and Elizabeth Smallwood's distress. And now his own distress.

He awoke with a jolt - seconds after falling asleep - for long enough to put his fist into his mouth to stop himself from crying out. Which was the last thing he ever wanted to do. But his excuse was that it had been a truly awful day.

TO BE CONTINUED…


	7. Chapter 7

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 7: '…these are the things…'

When he awoke she had gone, off to a new day and Charles Augustus Magnussen, and he was deeply relieved. His head was clear, but there were gaps in his memory and his body felt strangely leaden and overtired.

He had slept in his clothes, which were rumpled now; and he still did not smell like himself. His watch told him he had slept for almost twelve hours, and the afternoon sky was darkening through the bedroom windows.

Rolling over was an effort, and he lay like something dead and stared blankly at the ceiling. So much had happened in the last three days, and none of it good. Lady Smallwood's little blackmail situation was turning out to be something else, to be much more than her husband's ancient and indiscreet letters to an underage call girl.

Everything - everyone - he touched was changing shape before his eyes - Kitty Haig, Magnussen, Janine, Appledore, The Smallwoods. What was happening? And what was he doing wrong? Or was he doing anything wrong?

Thank God John Watson was well out of the way, in no position to intrude and interfere. The last thing he could manage right now was to try and explain what was happening when faced with the knowing eyes of John Watson, who saw him too clearly. John Watson would warn and worry and be the voice of reason. John Watson would stop him doing this thing, would tell him it was too exposing, too dangerous, and had already taken a toll.

He did not want to think about that. Conflict, danger, pain. They focussed and strengthened him. Made him dig in and perform to a higher level than before. Shame and self loathing helped by pushing him deeper within himself, sealing him off from other people, plunging his concentration into a dogged determined isolation to ensure a result that John Watson was no longer around to support and strengthen and soften the effects of.

He should never have allowed himself to get used to having an assistant. He knew that now. Oh, on the surface it had been good - to have someone to deal with other people for him, to take the sharp edges off the world, to deal with the pathetic logistics of everyday. But in the final analysis having to learn to consider other people's perceptions and reactions for Watson's sake and influence had been distracting, weakening, discordant.

He would go back to what he had been before John Watson and the growth of friendships, back to his dark reflection of Mycroft's bright light, his brother's example of operating only in the light of pure logic and seeing other people as goldfish. Mycroft. Strength and example and stability. Yes.

So. Thank goodness he and Lady Smallwood were dealing with this alone, able to disregard Watson and circumvent Mycroft by keeping the whole situation just between the two of them, keeping it all clear of both MI5 and MI6 as well as the Foreign Office. And Mycroft Holmes.

First things first today. He would have to deal with Molly; a Molly angry at him and in full professional flow, a Molly who now knew even more of the worst about him than she had even known before. She possibly could not love him less, although he would always wish that she did not love him at all - he could neither understand nor explain that - but she should hate him, must now hate him more, for Sherlock did not comprehend anything of what went on in Molly Hooper's pathetically loyal and loving head, so could do nothing to remove himself from her regard, or even lessen the effect he had upon her.

So what next? He groaned; a whole list of what nexts. Molly - to see if her findings could help him to remember what had happened to him. Kitty - to review her article and tell her what he knew about her now that might or might not have effect on the situation; Janine - to help him creep under the real and the figurative wire that protected Magnussen; Lady Smallwood - to update; Mycroft - to avoid; Mrs Hudson - for shopping; Lestrade - for sanity.

He sighed. Eased himself delicately out of the bed, resisted the temptation to stay there, removed his clothes and went to shower and shave. Rarely had he felt so reluctant to face the day.

But when he presented himself at Bart's later he was back behind his normal façade; charcoal suit and black shirt, the Belstaff and scarf. Molly Hooper looked up at him as he entered her office, smiled wanly and shook her head.

"You OK?" she asked.

"Yes."

She knew he wasn't, but also knew there was no point in contradicting and arguing about it. Picked up paperwork in a manilla folder.

"I am not going to be able to tell you much. No traces on your clothes - someone was careful, and the clothes too well sluiced by the rain. The only mark on your clothes was your own blood on your shirt collar, which I assume came from the first bungled injection into your neck?"

He nodded.

"That actually proved quite handy, because I could test your blood before and after. Nothing wrong with the 'before' sample, no drugs, completely clean." She cocked an ironic eye at him, and he tilted his head in resigned understanding.

"Afterwards….hmn. The good news is that being non-neurologically typical you have an almighty tolerance to most drugs. The bad news is, you got pumped up with enough to kill a horse; although actually horses have quite delicate constitutions, so perhaps I should say elephant?"

Sherlock nodded. He knew this.

"GHD deteriorates very quickly in some people - and would in you - so I estimate you probably had four or five doses to get you down and keep you under. That is a lot; that would be enough to kill a normal person over that amount of time. Which indicates that someone wanted you kept under for a considerable period of time and it was a very deliberate overdose. But also that they did not really care if you lived or died.

"Someone must have known there was a real risk of killing you. by administering so much. I have to say…." she hesitates and turned her back on him to continue, as she is embarrassed by what she needs to say and now knows about him. "Someone wanted to keep you very deeply out of things to do what it was they wanted to do with you. To you.

"There were no results from the rape kit because someone had also gone to a great deal of trouble to remove any evidence on you. You had been bathed - you know that - but your body was also stuffed full of antiseptic and liquid soap. As if someone wanted to leave you a message of their invisibility, their untouchability, their control over you. All the rape kit swabs found was soap. I have no evidence for you because of that. All you have - could have - is your own memory. So I am afraid it is down to your memory and your word against someone else's. Sorry, Sherlock." She turned, looked hard at him, and hesitated before professionally being driven to ask:

"Do you remember anything about it?"

She watched him snap his head in the briefest negative, eyes turned inwards, not seeing her.

"Consider the thought that might be for the best," she said. Heard him exhale sharply." You were also dosed up with ketamine; an anaesthetic high which is also often responsible for memory loss. Someone has been very clever, Sherlock. Please. Before you do anything else. Think about yourself in this situation, where someone is mad enough, controlling enough, to have not only stockpiled so many chemical kicks but is also prepared to use them. And more than happy to use so many of them on you.

"Someone was either prepared for you in particular, aware of your abnormal drug resistance. Or was prepared in bulk for anyone who came along. Neither thought is a happy one. But neither of them is your fault."

She waited for him to speak, but he just stood and looked blankly at her, dumb now as well as blind.

"Are you listening to me? Don't start doing victim guilt. Move on."

"You are a comfort to me."

The words came out so mechanically spoken she did not know how to read him. Frowned, puzzled.

"Stop it, Sherlock. This was not your fault."

"I made a mistake. Stepped out of the shadows. It _is_ my fault."

She moved sharply forward, reached up to put a hand on his rigid shoulder and shake it. He looked at her but still did not visibly react Wished she was still a silent mouse creeping around him, as she used to be. Not this fierce little blind spot right in his eyeline.

" You are never in the shadows. If you made a mistake it was for the best of reasons. Sometimes you just have to admit you are human, and can make errors like the rest of us. It's how you get past the errors that counts, Sherlock."

"Yes. Thank you for your input."

And without so much as a smile or a word of farewell, he turned on his heel and left.

o0o0o0o

Lady Elizabeth Smallwood came briskly into the anteroom to her office in the deepest, quietest and most secret part of Whitehall and curtly greeted the tall young man awaiting her.

"How did you get in here without my secretary knowing?" she demanded. It was as if the hesitant and terrified woman who had appeared at 221B without so much as an appointment or a please had been someone else. She certainly wished it had been someone else.

Sherlock nodded towards her to tell her he understood her bravado and her reasons for it. That knowing glimmer from under his brows did not calm her; quite the reverse.

"Worked here for a bit. Know the building. Security could be better, actually…."

"Sherlock!" She heard her voice hit an edge, clamped down on it.

"I am going to Copenhagen to see Ellie Sondersun. Need some background. Thought I should let you know."

"Very well. When? For how long?" She fiddled with her wrist watch, tried to avoid his eyes.

"The day after tomorrow she is out in public doing book signings. I will see her then and catch her on the wing. She will be unprepared, but she will talk to me. Tell me about the letters from her side of things, what she knows. I need to know how those letters got into Magnussen's hands. How did he get hold of her letters to Jack?"

"I don't know."

"Then ask him. And tell me." He leant forward into her face, and her breathing stopped. "I need to learn everything about Magnussen. Learn his methods, His subterfuge. His power. That is how I will defeat him." He nodded to himself.

"Don't worry, Elizabeth. No-one will know I am there as your plenipotentiary. I won't be Sherlock Holmes to her. I won't even look like me. But I need what she can tell me. I am still making connections. Has Magnussen approached you yet?"

His speech was stilted yet rapid fire. He barely looked at her as he spoke and even though she was now calmer she could not read his demeanour.

"No. Not yet. I think he may be waiting for something. I think a European security concordance in a few weeks time, when the background of the normally anonymous membership may come under press scrutiny. Make a worthy but boring news story titillating. So we have a breathing space. I hope this gives you time to gain more background knowledge."

She stood still and faced him and all she could see was focussed, tight lipped implacability. There was a strong air of his elder brother about him now, and much as she welcomed it, she knew in her heart she preferred the steely compassion she had seen in Baker Street.

"Thank you for letting me know. Are you making progress?"

He shrugged.

"Magnussen is….a difficult mark. But you knew that. I am getting closer, finding out more about him. I do not like what I am finding. But all knowledge is power, and I assure you it will be in this case. Behind the cool and civilised front he presents to the world is a shark that strikes with speed and ruthlessness. He is dangerous, Elizabeth. More dangerous than even you expected him to be. Or warned me about."

"I told you that."

"No-o-o. I am telling you that directly from my own experience; not parroting the puerile theoretical assessment of your minions."

She looked at him silently for long moments, and his hot, angry eyes met hers but did not back down.

"What has happened?" she interrogated. He blinked then, and slowly turned now-dead eyes to her, and it was then she knew he would not answer her; not ever. It had been something he wanted to ignore, not to admit into his psyche, not mention. Dear Lord; whatever could have happened that even Sherlock Holmes ran from?

She flattened a leap of fear that rose as far as her throat.

"You now understand why I was - am still - frightened," The words were an admission of her own fallibility but also a recognition of his endurance and refusal to back away. She took a breath, hesitant to ask, yet needing to know. "What has happened since we first spoke to make you more determined now?"

"That is not your concern. I did tell you when I agreed to this. Information I will only share on a need-to-know basis. That is not something you need to know. All I ask is that if you have new intelligence on Magnussen you keep me updated. Can you do that?"

"Regardless of the Official Secrets Act?"

"Elizabeth..." The very word was scornful.

"Anything else I can do?"

"Keep Mycroft off my back."

o0o0o0o

He walked through London's tea time traffic heading towards Victoria and Kitty Haig's little terraced house. He estimated she would be home from work by the time he arrived, and his circuitous route avoiding CCTV cameras took him as an invisible wraith through shops and municipal buildings, public houses and alleys and across several rear gardens to finally tap gently on Kitty Haig's kitchen window.

She had the rolling pin in her hand again, and was frowning into the darkness before she saw him.

"Rolling pin again, eh? We must stop meeting like this."

The tension in her deflated instantly.

"What are you doing here?"

"Let me in and I'll tell you."

The kitchen was the same calm haven he remembered. He sat back down in the same chair and pushed his manic smile in her direction.

She frowned. This was the man who had been collapsed and defeated in this very room just a day ago; who she had seen be charming and candid at her workplace, blisteringly blunt and imperious after the gala, intense and musical and heartbreaking when playing his violin before a roomful of strangers.

She decided she would never see the real Sherlock Holmes, or even recognise him if she did. The thought alarmed as much as it intrigued. Now he was being alert and quietly inhuman, a conduit of pure intelligence.

"You certainly look better. Are you?"

"Yes."

She leant back against the kitchen table, crossed her arms and looked down at him. He looked back at her, impassive, and waited for her to speak again.

"I've written your article. Have a copy for you. Hope you like it - think I've shown the real you. This time. As much of the real you as you allow through, and as much as I want to put out to the world, anyway."

He quirked a hollow smile at her.

"It doesn't matter. I've told you before. Put that load down. My suicide was not your fault. You were a pawn then, just as you are now."

"What do you mean?"

"Magnussen wanted you to write this article about me; pushed you into my sight. More specifically, he wanted you to snare me. Get me into the world of CAM News, Draw me in. He sent you to the gala evening specifically to entrap me and he made it clear to you that was what you had to do. He used your own personal and professional conscience against you to reach me."

"How do you know that? Think you know that?"

"Let's just say I have more experience and knowledge than you. "

"I don't believe that," she said. But her voice, and her eyes, said she did.

"Don't brood upon it. You have been played by the best. Who have all made sure you were weak and malleable. Moriarty charmed and romanced you and promised you a scoop, professional success; an investigative story that would make your name. Magnussen just made sure you worked for him and then leant on you. And he holds all the cards. He is your boss and can sack you, ruin your entire life and career, if you do not do what he wants. He is a master of manipulation. So I'm not going to hold any of your actions against you."

"How very kind," she said, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. "You make me sound like an idiot."

"Most people are," he agreed. "Of course I have not discounted the possibility that he was determined to employ you because of your link with me so he could utilise it. Just a theory thus far. But a strong theory nevertheless. Myself as target."

They both took a breath, exchanged twisted, disillusioned smiles. She decided to change tack.

"But seriously, Sherlock. What happened to you yesterday? What was all that about? You getting here as if by magic? So ill? Molly and her tests? What has all that got to do with me?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean - you don't bloody know?" she was suddenly angry and frustrated by the man, his words - everything about him." How can you say that after the speech you have just made? Do you really think I'm an idiot?" She was starting to raise her voice; but Sherlock could read more than ordinary anger behind her response. There was fear, and sadness, and the edge of a panic that had been battened down for far too long already.

"Not exactly." He stood up and took the rolling pin from her hand and put it down on the table. Looked at her squarely. She read something dark and intimate - _and hers -_ move across his face, and she backed away from it.

"No." It was flat denial.

"I know, Kitty."

She was shaking her head, turning away from him. But had nowhere to go to avoid him.

"I know about Nicholas." His voice was soft now, and very gentle. "Why didn't you tell me about him?"

"Tell you what?"

His voice was so quiet it was barely a whisper, and yet a death knell, and it almost broke her nerve.

"That your husband is dead."

"I haven't said anything about him to you, or to anyone. So what makes you think you know that?"

"So? OK, then. Where is he? I come to your house in the early hours; so where is your husband, the man of the house, coming to the door to repel potential burglars? Does he come downstairs to investigate? He does not. Is he here now? He is not. Is he away for work? I think not. There is no evidence of male coats or paraphernalia in the hall, male hobbies around the house, any maleness about this place.

"You have not left him - or him you - as you still wear his wedding band, still have your wedding photograph on the wall. And…your face is sad in repose now. Without that cheeky, crazy spark that was there when I knew you before. You are sadder and wiser. Need I go on?"

She shook her head, her hands to her mouth.

"I don't talk about it; about me. No-one at _The Daily Briefing_ knows; none of them ever met Nick. I don't want pity, or….even sympathy, really. Sometimes I do pretend….he is just away from home working. Or has slipped out for a bottle of wine. I still expect him to come through that door, laughing and complaining about being caught up late at work…." Her voice stuttered to a stop. She thought she had said enough; too much.

"What happened?"

"Oh, nothing special, nothing to make headlines. A very ordinary hit and run; just at the end of the road here. He was late home, running down the street….and a car just came round the corner at speed and knocked him down. An everyday sort of tragedy."

"Did they get the driver?"

"No. The driver did not stop." Sherlock nodded silently, unsurprised. But frowned when she added: "CCTV showed a black Audi. But they couldn't trace it."

 _Black Audi? What was the alarm bell a black Audi triggered? Think. Think!_

"No clear view of the number plates?"

"A clear view, but a cloned plate. The plate was for a black Audi alright, but the real Audi to match that plate lives in Glasgow, and the owner - and his car - had a cast iron alibi."

"How long ago?" He was pushing, he knew he was. He could hear her voice cracking and see her fists in her eyes, hiding them from him.

"Eight months," she said. "Ironic really. Eight months married, eight months a widow."

She was laughing a little hysterically and sobbing now. almost without realising it. Shaking her head. She risked a glance up at Sherlock's face and saw he was registering nothing of her reaction or her pain, was looking away and down, somewhere deep within himself.

"Eight months…" he muttered to himself. "Interesting. Coincidence….or not…."

For it was eight months since he had been back. Eight months since he had risen from the dead, just as Nicholas Haig had fallen. He dismissed the chill that crawled down his spine.

"Please…." she said faintly. She stepped towards him and her arms lifted a little towards him.

"What?" he asked, looking up towards her again, sounding thoughtful, almost baffled.

"Sometimes the grief is too much, Sherlock. Sometimes it overwhelms me when I least expect it….and I feel so alone," she held her tear stained face up to his, her arms lifting now. "Could you please just…..?"

He concentrated on her but neither his body nor his face moved.

"Comfort you?" he asked, frowning. "Hold you?" She nodded.

"Comfort is best from strangers, or caring professionals. Or people you love. I am none of those things. I would be no help to you. Surely you know that?"

His inflexionless words were like a douche of cold water. She dragged in a painful breath.

"You are best to want only distraction from me, objectivity. Learn never to want or expect comfort and you will not be disappointed. Tell me about Nicholas."

He sat back down into the old Windsor chair, and she trembled down into the seat on the other side of the Aga opposite him. Took a deep, steadying breath. His intelligent calm quietened her, and his concentration focussed her.

She twisted in her seat and reach up to the sideboard, took the already opened bottle and poured two generous glasses of red wine, handed him one. He accepted it but did not drink.

"Tell me," he said.

So she did.

"We met at work. I was the new girl, he was the experienced investigative journalist. We shared a joke about how redheads should stick together to compare all the ginger jokes. And that was it, really…."

He listened and nodded and encouraged, watched her mood lift, the memories making her smile. The story was trite and personal. Very little of it registered except 'investigative journalist' and that made him wonder.

But he sat back, brain on half power, and listened to her talk. Watched her drain the glass and unconsciously refill it. Drain her well of emotion. He learnt about the girl in front of him and her husband and watched her relax as she talked.

"…I just miss him so much. And I think I've said enough, now. Thank you."

She smiled at him a little then. She could not remember the last time someone had encouraged her to talk about Nick. Everyone else she knew found bereavement embarrassing, wanted her to be intelligent enough and socially assured enough to get over her widowhood swiftly and unemotionally. Without bothering or embarrassing them with it. She had learnt in the past few months that very few people had emotional maturity, encompassed the idea of death as a part of life, knew what she needed.

Yet here was the high functioning sociopath Sherlock Holmes knowing her, knowing reaction to death and the best way to help her. Extraordinary.

"Nothing to thank me for."

The compliment bounced off him like a shower of rain.

"Did Nicholas have a study in the house?"

"The back bedroom. More of a man cave…." Kitty replied. "I can't really face going in there. The room is too full of him."

"May I see?"

"Of course. Door on the left, top of the stairs."

He stood, and so did she.

"I…I'm throwing together a stir fry for dinner. Nothing special. But I could do enough for two? If you would like? My thank you?"

She was hesitant. He did not want to stay, did not want food, but he had never expected her to allow him to see Nicholas Haig's study. So to remain at her request and accept her meal was a fair return.

"That would be kind."

He left the kitchen, draped the Belstaff and scarf on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs and walked slowly upwards.

An investigative journalist, dead eight months. Surely - surely - it could not be mere coincidence? The hard fist that was lying in wait in his stomach all the time these days ready to punch him twisted his gut instead. He ignored it.

The tiny back bedroom contained a mahogany reproduction pedestal desk, a large filing cabinet, bookshelves and the expected models of racing cars, steam locomotives and Star Wars. Man cave indeed. A wedding photograph on the wall showed a happy couple beaming into the lens; Nicholas Haig a redhead with clever blue eyes, regular unspectacular features, a winning smile. He looked honest and reliable and a man who had not deserved his fate. But then, few people deserved a tragic early death.

Sherlock sat in the captain's chair at the desk and opened the laptop. A few moments later he had broken the password, skimmed through the files, saw little of note there apart from honeymoon photos, chatty emails to friends, copies of stories covered.

Nothing else had appeared on the laptop since his death. Kitty had not lied; she had left the study alone, left all her husband's things in here alone. No-one had made new entries or even unplugged his laptop. She had clearly and genuinely found the room as hard to enter as she had said it was.

It was also clear from those files that Haig was a thorough professional who preferred doing the hard work behind the scenes rather than claiming the headlines.

Nothing about Magnussen at all in the searches. Well, it had been a longshot. He sat back and clicked his tongue against his teeth in frustration. He stood and quickly checked the bookshelves. But there was nothing with interesting slips of paper hidden in the spine, nothing with a hollow carved from the body to make a secret hiding place, no book with covers that differed from content.

He went through the desk drawers. House and utility files, family correspondence. Stationary and spare ink and paper for the printer, extra pens and pencils, a drawer full of boxes of staples, various tapes for sticking and wrapping, duct tape. All boringly ordinary and mundane. He was disappointed.

Something ….something….caught his eye in that bottom left hand drawer, and he stared in. Concentrating. Looking for the out of place detail that had tugged at his brain.

Everything in that desk was tidy and catalogued. All pencils sharpened, all biros capped, all rolls of tape neatly folded over at the ends. Apart from the duct tape; carelessly ripped off at the end, a rough diagonal end torn off with teeth. He thought for a moment.

Took out all the desk drawers, looked behind and underneath them, into the desk cavity. Pushed the chair away and lay down on the floor, rolling himself into the corners and looking at things now from the ground upwards. Casting his eyes around the walls and skirting boards from below - he finally saw it. A line of duct tape beneath the flat metal plate that connected the two sections of the radiator panels.

He wriggled into reach and picked at the edge of the duct tape there. Into his hand fell a tiny blue memory stick. And scrawled onto the broad side of the stick was written - _3113._

Sherlock Holmes looked at those numbers briefly, worked out the simple code and smiled to himself. In the simple code world of Boy Scout badges, if A was 1 and Z was 26.…..those four numbers spelt out what he had never dared they might.

He stood up, flipped the memory stick in his hand in a small gesture of elation, of objective achieved. Perhaps this would be as helpful - or as explosive - as the Bruce Partington memory stick? But hopefully without a pool at the end of it?

That thought made him take the stick from his jacket pocket, where he had originally put it, and instead place it in the tiny squeeze pocket in the rear of the waistband of his trousers. That was better, safer.

Like a ghost, he checked the other upstairs rooms; the plain bathroom, the spare bedroom, Kitty's room. Nothing unexpected, nothing out of place. Nothing giving any appearance other than what she had told him - that of a young woman who now lived alone.

Perhaps she was as innocent as she appeared. Perhaps she was not Magnussen's tool or co-conspirator. Perhaps she really was an innocent pawn for the second time. He did not reflect on his feelings about that, merely registered his assessment and judgment.

The smell of food cooking - chicken, green Thai curry - wafted up the stairs, along with the compulsive sound of the Dave Brubeck Quartet at Oberlin, Paul Desmond doing that warm fuzzy alto sax sound he did incomparably well. All very civilised, very relaxed. Perhaps he had been right to agree to stay.

He opened the door to the kitchen and consciously stopped himself physically reacting to the sight that met his eyes.

Kitty was working a pan at the stove, apron on, steam rising into her face.

And sitting just where he himself had been sitting only a few moments ago was Charles Augustus Magnussen.

Magnussen turned slightly in the chair, raised his eyebrows and manufactured a bloodless half smile.

"Ah, Mr Holmes. What a pleasant surprise. Making yourself at home, I see."

TO BE CONTINUED…..

 **Author's notes:**

Happy Birthday today, Sherlock Holmes! And celebrate Twelfth Night.

" _Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them."_

" _I say there is no darkness but ignorance."_


	8. Chapter 8

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 8: "…the words you use…"

*Mr Magnussen. What an unexpected pleasure,"

There were times he appreciated his reactive public school manners, the conditioning that took him to a default position of civilised behaviour he mostly railed against, and this was one of them. Harrow cut in on automatic pilot as his senses reeled from the shock.

"It is mutual, Mr Holmes."

Magnussen nodded coolly, the tiniest of smiles. A disturbing flicker of appreciation behind those pale eyes.

"I think our Mrs Haig was very surprised to find me on her doorstep. But I was passing and the thought crossed my mind that she should have written her article about you by now. And so I wanted to see it."

The words lifted at the end of sentences in a typical speech pattern. It made him sound interested but mildly amused by his subject matter, by life. It made him sound quietly charming and inoffensive, not uncaring and calculating.

He looked wordlessly at Kitty with that meaningful half smile in place until she turned, spatula in hand in the midst of her cooking, and regarded him. There was a shadow something in his assessment looking at the two of them that was either threat or particular expectation, but she didn't see it, concentrating on her cooking. Sherlock did.

"There is a hard copy on the side, and I'm pleased with it," she nodded towards it, printed out and in a clear envelope, the copy she had meant for Sherlock. "I don't normally show people what I've written about them before it's published, but in this case it seemed only fair to make an exception. In the circumstances. So it's all done. No problem."

Magnussen made a noise in his throat, looked back at Sherlock.

"You are an exception, Mr Holmes. How very nice for you." His tone was impossible to read. "Very cosy here, is it not? And also a very cosy scene here between you." He looked slowly about him. "Wine ready poured. Food being prepared. Soft music playing. Mr Holmes looking pleasantly - ah - dishevelled instead of his usual elegant self. Very intimate."

Sherlock almost laughed. Explaining he looked dishevelled because he had been rolling around a bedroom floor would not help either his case or Kitty's. Magnussen caught the frisson of sudden unexpected humour in him and frowned slightly.

"Could I possibly have been matchmaking by putting you two together?" he asked, smoothly suggestive.

"Not likely!" Kitty threw over her shoulder. There was no mistaking her surprise and dismissal.

Sherlock did smile then. Magnussen did not like being wrong, or being even the mildest butt of anyone's humour; perhaps least of all Sherlock's. He caught the move of expression in Sherlock's face and locked eyes, arranging his features into something that was not quite a smile in return.

The smile on the face of a tiger, Sherlock thought. Changed mental gear and waited. Holding the gaze he did not like of a man he liked even less.

"Would you care to join us? The meal will stretch….?" Kitty's good manners overcame her common sense. Magnussen broke eye contact with slow and insolent deliberation and turned to her.

"Oh, I think not. But go ahead. Please eat while I read." He made an expansive gesture, and Kitty grinned at him.

"A glass of wine with us, then?"

He shook his head.

"Perhaps not."

Kitty served the meal, gestured to Sherlock to sit across the pine table from her and eat. He had eaten yesterday. He wasn't hungry. But it was a good idea to behave with normality in front of the older man.

Kitty looked across at him with wide disturbed eyes and he nodded reassuringly back. They were both paying more attention to Magnussen with their peripheral vision than they were to each other; both saw him rise to take the article, flip it from the envelope, sit back down and read. Then draw a silver pen from his pocket and begin to sub edit, to make amendments.

Sherlock stopped Kitty reacting to this desecration of her work with a tiny shake of his head. Decided to make ordinary domestic conversation instead because he thought domestic might irritate and even alienate Magnussen more.

"So: did you buy that new coat you were thinking of?"

Her eyes flared, widened even more when he winked at her; then she realised what he was doing.

"Not yet. I can't decide between a classic camel cashmere or one of those trendy duvet style coats, light but warm." she joined in the game. "What do you think?"

A meandering conversation like this could last an entire meal, and they spun it out between them, eating blindly, not tasting anything, waiting for Magnussen to interrupt.

Kitty had forgotten herself enough to be genuinely laughing at a remark from Sherlock when Magnussen spoke.

"I have made changes." The voice was mild, yet with flat authority.

"I'm sure," Kitty retorted. "But why? The article is fine as it stands.". Kitty was instantly the professional journalist, defending her work.

"You are too subjective. It is clear you like him." Magnussen's voice was quiet, cool as steel, flicking a glance like an angry whip towards Sherlock's default position of an infuriating bland half smile.

"That's not a crime. This is a feature, not an objective analysis. And to show him in a good light with a sympathetic eye is unusual enough to not need defending."

They conversed as if Sherlock was not there in the room with them. It was oddly unnerving. In the final analysis Magnussen ignored her objections, as they had known he would, and wafted the paperwork towards Sherlock.

"Have you read this?"

"No. Why should I? "

"Well…." Magnussen's smile was forced, almost puzzled. "It is about you."

Sherlock lifted a dismissive shoulder in a half shrug. "Not interested."

"You don't care what this article says about you?"

"I am not interested in anyone's opinion of me."

"I am interested in you, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock held back his reply for a deliberate beat, so Magnussen knew his answer now would be considered, not reactive.

"As I said. Not interested in anyone's opinion of me."

"You should be interested in mine."

Sherlock lifted and cocked his head at the thin thread of menace in the tone of those words

"Really? Why? So you can help me? Or so I can help you? To stop you destroying me in the press?" Sherlock's expression was of a scornful detachment he could not be bothered to hide. "Oh! No, I forgot, silly me. That's already been done. Sorry Mr Magnussen. You're too late. That was Kitty. In a past life. Hers and mine."

Kitty Haig shot a look at him, at both of them. And resolutely closed her mouth on any comment she thought she might have been going to make.

"You are so charming, Mr Holmes." Magnussen's retort was level and unmoved. He still looked at Sherlock, just sat and looked at him as Kitty stood, crossed the room and took the article from his hands, skim reading.

"That's not my article any more. You have turned it round completely. That's not the facts. Or the right tone." She was so hurt at having her work changed, writing she had actually been rather proud of, her voice was at first angry, then became deadened with pain and resignation.

"I don't deal in facts, you silly girl, I deal in news. And opinion. Mine usually. So much more interesting." He flickered a dismissive look her way, then looked back to Sherlock, "Would you like to read it too? Approve my new copy about you?"

Sherlock shrugged wordlessly in reply, knowing this was the real Magnusson he was seeing now - remote, self centred, heartless beyond the disguise of civilised mannerisms. He picked up the empty plates, turned away and took them to the sink. All his internal alarm bells were ringing, and he didn't understand why. Or why Magnussen was focussing on him especially - and why now.

"You are a strange man, Mr Holmes. And you exert a strange fascination."

Magnussen followed him with his eyes, and Sherlock internally flinched at the hunger he saw there.

"Compliments are not really my field." He quirked his lips, kept his face blank.

"Read it, Sherlock. Then you won't blame me for it."

He looked at Kitty, uneasy and angry, who had finally picked up on the strange mood in the room.

"We have already had that conversation, Kitty. I don't intend saying anything different."

"Intellectual intimacy. How fascinating," Magnussen observed. "What did you say to her?"

"That I didn't blame her then, and I don't blame her now."

"Generous of you."

"Logical."

"You have talked to her, and at length. Would you also talk to me?" Sherlock could feel the pull, the determination, of the man. He waited to see how much Magnussen wanted his attention "Next week, perhaps?"

"Why should I do that? And why would you want to?"

"Because I would enjoy your company; and you may enjoy mine. Because I want to make you an offer. A business offer. Over lunch?"

Sherlock hesitated. Every instinct was to say no. But for Lady Smallwood he was committed to saying yes, regardless of the risk or the subject matter.

"I am busy for the next few days….."

Shall we say Friday then? 1pm? The penthouse at my headquarters?"

Sherlock nodded, Magnussen smiled.

"Any chance you would bring your violin and perform a short recital for me? "

"An unusual request."

"But I am a music lover, Mr Holmes. And you get nothing in this world if you do not ask. You play so beautifully it would be a shame not to hear you again, to see you play in person this time."

"Beautifully," Sherlock scoffed with distaste and barely repressed venom. "I am not a musician for hire."

"No, you are so much more. And a beautiful surprise always, wouldn't you say?" Magnussen's tone of voice and expression were unreadable.

A spasm crept slowly down Sherlock's spine, like cold fingers, and the room was emptying of air. He needed to get out.

"I think not. But I have to go, Kitty. Another appointment. Thank you for the meal. "

He straightened up from where he has been lounging carelessly with a hip resting against the sink. Magnussen rose quickly to block his way. His right hand lifted to shake Sherlock's, his left hand rose to curl around his shoulder.

Sherlock is tall, but Magnussen is perhaps an inch or so taller, equally lean, equally impassive.

For a moment they looked into each others eyes, eyes only inches apart, flat pale blue to expressionless opal grey. Magnussen's eyes reminded Sherlock of the flat blank stare of a shark….and he knew that to think that way led only to despair and defeat. He deliberately kept his hand down, did not take the hand offered. That damp, clammy hand.

"Yes," murmured Magnussen so only Sherlock could hear, a hard little smile almost as if appreciating the refusal to shake hands, the proffered hand falling only slowly. "A beautiful surprise."

Something in the eyes changed and the concentration focused down and inwards. "Of course, there are people who would say that you yourself are beautiful, Mr Holmes; such androgynous and individual features."

"There is nothing about me that is attractive. Flattery does not move me."

Magnussen's fingers curled convulsively, hard and fierce into his shoulder, as if about to attempt to shake him into submission, into agreement. But Sherlock remained still. To pull away would have been to admit the harsh grip had registered, admit some sort of defeat.

"I am not flattering you, Mr Holmes." the tone was jocular, the look behind the eyes was not. "To me most people are morons. You, however, are clearly far from being a moron. Which makes you interesting. Would do even if you were not a consulting detective with a brain who also makes beautiful music. In so many ways." Magnussen smiled. A hard, deliberate smile with no warmth within it. "Yes."

"Thank you for the information. But now I really am expected elsewhere." Sherlock bowed his head briefly to Kitty, did not include the Dane. "Thank you for the meal, Kitty. A most interesting evening."

"Friday. 1pm," was an appointment reminder that followed him out of the room, accompanied by Kitty Haig. He did not reply.

Once in the hall he shrugged into the Belstaff, twisted the scarf.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. It always goes wrong, somehow; anything and everything between you and me." Kitty opened the front door for him and stood aside.

"No, Kitty. Everything is fine." he planted a light kiss on the top of her head, and immediately regretted the gesture. "Don't worry."

He strode away into the night, unheeding now of being watched, of CCTV. He wondered about Magnussen's words, how Magnussen even knew he was there? So did Kitty tell her boss he had arrived at her house? Telephone the news while he was upstairs? So he could come and join them? She didn't look as if she had, but perhaps she was a better actor than he had thought.

And why do that anyway? Or perhaps Magnussen really had just expected the copy to have already been written and wanted to see it. But why should he need to see it tonight, when he could have seen it tomorrow?

Perhaps the strange dread Magnussen elicited was something he alone felt? And even so - why did he feel like that? He never normally dreaded being within the same room as his adversaries. Normally relished the challenge, the clash of intellects.

Magnussen was more than just an adversary, though. Sherlock understood this. He was a hunter. A shark. An implacable seeker of prey. And he had the deadening feeling that Magnussen had set his eyes upon him as prey and was intent on ripping him apart. Slowly.

Was this personal? Or because he somehow knew that Sherlock was standing between Magnussen and his greater prey - from Jack Smallwood along the entire feeding chain of a shark and it's plan to topple the powerbase of the western world?

He took a deep breath and put his shoulders back.

The hand in the coat pocket clicked on his mobile.

Messages, as usual, pinged straight in.

 **6.30pm What are you doing with yourself and without me? Angelo's tomorrow? Janine**

DELETE

REPLY

 **7.40pm:Away working. Back in two days. Will make a booking for then and see you there? X SH**

 _What am I doing, Janine? Spying, that's what. Deal with it._

 **5.45pm. Not heard from you. All OK? GL**

DELETE

REPLY

 **7.42pm: Fine SH**

 _Leave me in peace, Lestrade! This is not for you._

 **4.24pm: Lots of sunshine here. Still raining in London? Any chance of a reply? JW & M**

DELETE

 _For Christ's sake, John! Will you never get the message and just go away?_

He walks on.

The phone pings again.

 **7.45pm: He's gone. What's going on? What does he want? Kitty**

DELETE

REPLY

 **7.46pm: Me. Don't worry about the article. SH**

Mememememe…it was the first time he had pulled that thought forward, and he didn't like it. It was all suddenly too personal, too close and too intimate. He frowned as he walked. Intimate. He did not like that, either as a word or as a situation.

He would be all sorts of a fool not to recognise that Magnussen was interested in him, but the way Magnussen was interested in him was off any sort of scale. He knew that scale. Hated it. Had been…... He firmly closed his mind to that and thought of other things.

The little memory stick at his waist was burning to be read. It had been hidden before Nicholas Haig died. Why had Nicholas created it? Hidden it? Kept knowledge of it from Kitty? It didn't make sense. But he would soon find out.

He could have cried with frustration to find Mycroft in the kitchen of 221B calmly making tea.

"Run out of teabags at Mycroft Towers?" he asked, taking off the coat and scarf and hanging them away.

"Very droll." Mycroft poured two mugs of tea without actually asking if his brother wanted one and sat down very deliberately by the empty fireplace in Sherlock's chair, against which was propped his umbrella and briefcase.

"What do you want?"

It was all Sherlock could do to be civil at that moment, but he tamped down his impatience and determined to give Mycroft no hint, nothing to feed on.

"I want to quiet the little voice in my head that is warning me you are up to something."

His brother sipped tea but leant forward to try and read the immobile face opposite him he knew so well.

"Just a case, Mycroft." His answer was quiet and unperturbed. He wanted it to stay that way and have his brother leave as soon as possible.

"Not one of Lestrade's."

"No. Private. Which means private from you, too."

They peered at each other over the rims of their mugs, intellects clashing, identical scowls, uninformative expressions.

"Why are you even here?"

"I worry about you. Constantly."

Sherlock huffed into his tea.

"You really should do something about that power complex of yours. Especially in relation to me. You seem to keep forgetting that although I am your younger brother, Iam a grown adult."

"I might if only you behaved like one."

They smiled icily at each other.

"Something is going on, Sherlock. That violin playing silliness the other night seems to have set a hare running. Please do not tell me you are working for Charles Augustus Magnussen?"

Sherlock allowed himself to splutter into his tea. Convincing Mycroft because it was a true reaction.

"You must know better than that. I abhor newspaper magnates like him, people who abuse their power and bring people down on a whim. I would never work for someone like that."

Mycroft noted the response and filed it away under 'pending.'

"I know nothing of the sort. Magnussen is a special case. On my antennae, you might say. And since you came back from Serbia you have been …..odd. Even for you."

A movement behind his brother's eyes showed he recognised the truth of such rare, unguarded words. But nothing he did not already know.

"Nonsense. My two year absence merely made your heart grow forgetful."

"Heart? I didn't think I was supposed to have one? How could I ever forget you? You are my little brother."

Sherlock shot a piercing look at Mycroft then. A look Mycroft returned. That unspoken link tightening. Taut.

"Noted. Please do not express such sentimentality again. It gives me indigestion." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth to express irritation. "So now you know I am safely home for the evening and do not need to be nannied, are you going to drink up your tea and leave me in peace?"

The mildness of Sherlock's enquiry scared his older brother. Scared Mycroft into asking, with a studied calm he no longer felt:

"Sherlock. You would tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn't you? And you would come to me if you needed help?"

If Mycroft was an emotional man he would have said he felt some sort of cold arrow shaft into his heart. For his little brother to be so quiet, to be parrying his questions with such distracted disinterest, so little venom and spirit, worried him more than he could say. Sherlock's silence now, when such a direct appeal called for his instant customary snipe, was enough for Mycroft to want to take him by the shoulders and shake some normal, everyday, Sherlock style sense back into him.

Sherlock with both hands around his tea mug, looked into the depths of it, eyes hooded, expression hidden.

"Did you put something in the tea to generate this unusual level of brotherly concern?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Mycroft realised he was peering too closely, giving the degree of his concern away, and dropped his eyes. "If I was putting something in your tea it would be to make you…." he clamped his teeth down on the rest of the sentence.

"Normal?" Sherlock finished for him. "How nice of you."

The spite is almost back to a normal level; but Sherlock's reply was grudging, and he knew Mycroft knew that.

"Just leave me alone, Mycroft. For once. Please."

Mycroft Holmes untypically leapt to his feet. Almost three years of worry getting the better of him.

"What has happened to you to be like this?" He loomed unexpectedly over his brother, who sat unperturbed in the armchair, not even looking at him.

Mycroft made a mental note that even _he_ was acting out of character now; it must be catching. His instincts were shouting at him.

"Do please calm down. It is for a case. Just a case." The answer was so quiet Mycroft was seriously scared. This behaviour was so untypical…..

"That is no answer!"

"Nevertheless, it is all you are going to get." Sherlock smiled seraphically up at him, totally unmoved.

Mycroft stood where he was for what seemed minutes. Sherlock simply ignored him, sipped his tea and did not react.

"You think you are in control of this by blanking me. You aren't. Can you not see you are not behaving like yourself?"

"Mycroft, if you do not leave right now I will knock you down." Even the threat was made quietly and in oddly conversational terms, when normally Sherlock made all manner of treats towards him, loudly and scathingly, but none of them ever physical.

Mycroft sighed, and Sherlock watched him step back, pick up his umbrella and briefcase.

"Mark my words, Sherlock."

Neither said goodbye to the other, and as soon as he heard the front door close behind Mycroft, Sherlock sprung to his feet.

Went straight to the laptop, took the memory stick and inserted it into place. And the first thing that came on screen was a letter.

 _Dear Kitty,_

 _If you are reading this I should say sorry. Because I feel a bit sad for you, as it means that I was right and you were wrong. You will be reading this because I have given it to you, to prove to you that I was right about Magnussen, and this is my proof. My dossier._

 _You should have stayed here working with me. Not going to work for Magnussen._

 _I hope this shows you that I was right about him. That you will close the laptop when you have read this and come and give me a huge hug, knowing I found this out for you; all for you, sweetheart._

 _I have been an investigative reporter for 15 years, Kitty. When things are wrong, I know. Even before I have the proof. Journalist instinct._

 _I was always suspicious of Magnussen's motivation in offering you a job out of a clear blue sky. I have always worried that the infamy the false Sherlock Holmes exposure brought you three years ago would be a weight around your neck, and come back to bite you at some point._

 _Holmes was too unusual a target, and James Moriarty was always a scar you would carry with you for a very long time. Add Magnussen to the mix and the combination is/was scary dynamite._

 _But I could never get through to you about that, could I? So young at heart, so idealistic, so ambitious. You were determined to go to the Daily Briefing, and nothing I could say was going to stop you, just make you more determined to prove yourself. And I understand it, I really do._

 _What can I say? That's why I love you._

 _So what you have here is a dossier on Magnussen. I have been putting it together for a long time. A phrase here, a comment there, a joke somewhere else. Gossip, rumours, connections, whispers. Noting them all. Building up a case. Two and two together._

 _Another thing and then another thing, added as I find it; lists, stories, coincidences, names that unexpectedly or unexpectedly connect together, and how they relate to news stories in Magnussen's papers._

 _The aim is to finally pull all this data together and make a proper case of it. There keeps being more, so I keep digging._

 _Sometimes I think I am an obsessive nutter, other times than I am SO right I cannot believe no-one else sees it, or has put it all together before me. But that's because I am looking, and when I have enough material I will present it all, not just to you but also to the authorities, because I am certain something illegal_

Here the letter stopped; a work in progress.

Sherlock looked at this for some time, breathing deeply, then clicked on to the next section.

Twenty nine pages of names as individual files. Names and links and connections. The good and the bad, the famous and the infamous, the openly influential and those whose reach is normally hidden. He recognised all the names, reeled at some of the connections.

Halfway down the list came Jack and Elizabeth Smallwood. Everything Elizabeth had told him, and the Ellen Catherine Driscoll connection leading into Denmark and the Danish security forces. The connections that could bring down Parliament as surely as the Gunpowder Plot would have done - and Ellie Sondersun's family connection to the escort agency headed by her mother and older sister.

Sherlock shook his head, seeing Elizabeth Smallwood's briefing validated, clarified, condemned. He sat back and assessed.

This all needed research and homework. But this clearly was the secret and explosive file of a top rank investigative journalist looking for facts and proofs of matters above and beyond his working brief. Grasping at straws and rumours, picking up whispers, connecting and wheedling.

Reading Nicholas Haig's notes, Sherlock knew he had seen the true measure and intelligence of the man, and the person Kitty Riley fell in love with and is missing in her grief with all her heart.

It was also a damning indictment of Charles Augustus Magnusson. And a reason for Nicholas Haig to be dead.

One folder is labelled 'Speculation/In Process' and he clicked on it.

Ands the first file name he read was - Mycroft Holmes. His fingers clenched on the edge of the laptop. Had been expecting the worst, and here it was.

A page of notes, annotated, not analysed. Thoughts and titbits, asides and gossip. Odd words and unconnected sentences. Damning whichever way anyone looked at it, the way the small pieces of the jigsaw start to come together. He resisted the temptation to read that first, lest it have too much impact and stop him assessing the rest of the information properly. So he held back; started at the file titled CAM.

Took a deep breath and read:

 _CAM staffers do not stay long; he uses and disgards. Respected if not actively liked._

 _Has clammy hands. Medical condition?_

 _No wife or kids. Any girl or boy friends in the past?_

 _Does not connect with his two brothers; he is the middle one. Why not?_

 _Started his career in porno mags. How did this happen, and how relevant is this? Any leads on sexual orientation/preferences?_

 _Big house in the Cotswolds is his empire base. Reputed serious level of facts and photos stored there re almost everyone of interest in the western world. Cross referencing must be a nightmare? Any access possible?_

 _One man band. Holds most of the editorial control. Editors reputed to be puppets; Magnussen drives._

 _All secrets away from the office and the sight of others, then. Does not delegate. Secretive autocrat. Hard but fair - if it suits him. Nice!_

 _Very wide contact base. Cosies up to Cabinet members and there is talk of undue influence with PMs of both persuasions over at least twenty years. Blair and Brown as well as Cameron?_

 _Rumours of secret intelligence investigations - what's that about?_

 _Flirts with a number of fringe parties and has 'promised' finance in return for input and introductions. Try and tap fringe party spokesmen and see where this leads?_

 _Rumours of contacts in influential place in society for his gossip and blackmail. Check with Langdale, see if he has any names and info on movers and shapers CAM seen with?_

 _To appear before select committee on the press to answer questions re his influence and knowledge. How impartial can this be, knowing his heavy influence from the top down? Who on the committee does not have their secrets he may know and will influence their questioning of him, their decision making? DIG!_

 _Rumours government scientist Donald Bray killed himself after meetings with CAM. Any truth in this?_

 _Damien Barnett used to work for CAM. Says the big joke on the editorial floors is that he wants to rule the world - or just the UK - by stealth. (So who is he trying to draw in to achieve this?)_

 _Cannot be an MP himself as a foreign national, and is cross about that as he likes working the system in the UK, but still wants to control the policy makers of this country by hook and most probably crook. (Is this widely known? Try probing political contacts)_

 _Langdale Pike says CAM's ultimate target for serious backstage political influence would have to be Mycroft Holmes. See MH file (building; still in rough)_

Sherlock closed the Magnussen file and moved on to the one that bears Mycroft's name. Sucked a deep breath and started to read.

 _Who is Mycroft Holmes? Good question!_

 _Government mover and shaper. Cannot find a precise role/title for him; everyone on politics desks say he is the definition of the faceless shapeshifting government manipulator. Some strong stories re his power and influence, few hard facts._

 _MI5 and 6 connections (his powerbase?) and strong links with the CIA. Rumours of family links with European governments/officials. Wide Asian political knowledge. Korean specialism?_

 _Never heard of him before I started digging. What does he really do? Who is he? Not a public face/figure. No photos or cuttings on file, though name appears in the court circular from time to time._

 _Dale says Holmes is like Sir Humphrey but with more balls and brio. (Nice one if so.) Find out who exactly MH is. If such is possible._

 _BBC Deputy Political Editor (n0 idiot) maintains MH IS the British government. Full stop. Stays in background, likes it there, lurks in the shadows. Little known in the wider world - Who's who entry brief and not informative, but education listed as Cothill, Eton and Oxford PPE (1:1 - natch!)_

 _Whitehall direct from Oxford: diplomatic service etc. Scary guy - everyone says so, Early 40's therefore precocious talent for his level of input and influence._

 _Who's Who says he belongs to Diogenes Club. Itself highly secretive and selective; said to be the government/secret service die facto._

 _Rumours he is financed by family fortune regardless of his civil service salary._

 _Blank sheet person, no vices, friends, interests, recorded anywhere. Nor can I find anyone who knows him other than in passing. Cannot be personality free to hold the job he has, so clever and works hard to be deliberately in the shadows then; a strategist._

 _Everyone I speak to declares him the best go-to for policy, discretion, hard swift decision and action - and for being the invisible man._

 _Younger brother seems his only human link - Sherlock Holmes the fraudulent smart arse detective.( Kitty link - try and ask her about him!) Just 'back from the dead.' Apparently._

 _REALLY DO NOT LIKE THIS LINK! It puts Kitty within his orbit re both SH and Moriarty. Oh hell, why else would I be doing this secret file if I liked any of this in the first place? Man up, Haig!_

 _(Always thought K fanced SH; definitely fancied Moriarty when she thought he was Richard Brook. But that was then - she married ME!)_

 _Sherlock Holmes as Mycroft Holmes's pressure point? (Magnussen judges everyone by their weakness and what he calls pressure points.) And vice versa? Sounds logical. Or not._

 _The two apparently hate each other. Known to cut each other in public. Truth or astute politicking? Distance kept by MH because SH such a loose cannon? (Because he would be highly detrimental to his brother's career?) Or because they use each other? SH bonkers, they say. Bit of a head case. Big brother very clearly is not._

 _OK, too many people freeze when I ask about MH, but just roll their eyes if I ask about SH. (As does Kitty) Bizarre?_

 _Sounds a bit off. Any chance to get a talk with either of them and see where the land lies? (NB: Try, but both seem to stay out of public events etc, so impossible to accidentally on purpose bump into. I have tried)_

 _What is with these weird names, guys?_

 _Damien says he thinks CAM would describe each as the pressure point of the other. Land one, land them both? Not a nice thought but logical as far as CAM mindset goes._

 _Both Holmes's are unapproachable and unimpeachable. Both without normal human weaknesses - weird - mental stand-off runs in the family, then? Both/either would pique CAM's interest as personal and professional challenge. Scary thought!_

 _SH has an assistant/flatmate, Dr John Watson. Ex military doctor, invalided out of service, war wounds PTSD. Captain Northumberland Fusiliers, decorated. Afghanistan. Well liked, good doc._

 _Lover of Sherlock Holmes? (Pressure point then?) Most people say so. SH apparently has no other friends despite his good looks, intelligence, unique personality, so this would seem the natural thing - no-one can stand so far removed and alone, surely?_

 _JW denies being gay, SH never addresses the question. CAM would be intrigued. Lever? Gay or bi? So who am I talking about here? Who knows!_

 _Instinct says these two (three?)will definitely be a CAM target - singly or together. Later if not sooner. Could CAM resist this power play? Weird sibling heads he would delight to mess with!_

Sherlock snapped the laptop shut. Sat for a long time thinking about the material there. Made a decision, Opened it again. Downloaded the 3113 file onto the laptop. Puts the memory stick into one of his many hiding places within the flat then copied the file onto another memory stick and hide it in the waistband again. Then put on the Belstaff and scarf and heads into the night.

The file gave him information and advantage. He needed to keep it from Mycroft, but share with Elizabeth. She needed to know the complete picture and would use the information properly - investigate the names and the links and the probity. Would know if and when there was finally a time and a place to share the information with his brother.

An imperious wave - as usual - brought a taxi to his side and he gave a location on Hampstead Heath, The Spaniards. As one of London's oldest hostelries - immortalised in Dickens' Pickwick Papers, and reputedly where Keats wrote Ode To A Nightingale over a claret or two - it is a popular spot.

Sherlock paid the taxi, and without even looking round disappeared inside. The tall white pub on the edge of the Heath is popular and always full. He skirted round the bar, slipped behind a large group of people arguing about Christmas shopping even though it is only June, and was out of the garden door and into the garden.

Over the high grey wall, onto Spaniards Road, down onto the heath and headed across the woodland at a tangent. He dropped behind a shrubbery and waited, listening. Was he being followed? Was this sharpened instinct prickling the back of his neck truth or imagination? Was he being overcautious? He flipped round and backtracked. Better to be safe than sorry.

He made his way across the empty land to a spot behind Highgate Cemetery, a narrow and expensive Georgian lane which contains a few modernist houses. He headed for the central one, clicked the intercom.

"Hello?"

"It's me. Let me in."

The high wrought iron gates clicked then hummed with electricity, and opened a scant few inches. He slid through and made for the front door.

As he reached the porch the front door opened and released a pool of light on to the drive. Elizabeth Smallwood waited by the door. He said something - could never remember what - and as he did so a sharp pain from something weighty impacted the back of his head. Something thrown with force hit him sharply and without warning.

He pitched forward, gave a small involuntary cry. She should have slammed the door in his face in a sensible act of self preservation, but Lady Elizabeth Smallwood is made of sterner stuff and her reactions were sharp.

She punched the alarm button by the door and all the lights came on, an alarm siren sounding deep in the house. Instead of slamming the door in his face in the most obvious and instinctive act of self preservation she reached out, dug her hands deep into the thick material on the shoulders of the Belstaff and threw herself backwards, hauling the falling Sherlock over the threshold with her, the two of them slithering backwards and landing inside, in a heap on the parquet floor.

George Bradshaw was running towards them along the hall, Browning pistol in hand, he hurdled them both and raced out into the darkness.

"You OK?" she asked, struggling from beneath his sprawling body.

"Hmn"

She pulled herself out from underneath Sherlock Holmes with difficulty, looking down at him, and then sat herself more comfortably on the floor. Still looked at him. Lying on his face on her parquet floor, arms bent, hands clenched up by his face, blue veined lids momentarily closed, then opened again over pale shocked eyes.

"We must stop meeting like this," she said, to rouse him. "I assume there is a purpose to this visit other than giving me heart failure?"

He shuddered an ungainly way up to his hands and knees, put a shaky hand to the back of his head, which was still on the floor. He pulled the hand back down, onto the wooden blocks and mere inches from his face. Looked down and saw there was blood on his fingers. He kept looking at them, still slightly dazed, then reached back to wipe them on his coat. Twisted round, and regarded the half brick by his feet.

"Kids? Delinquents? Or the obvious thing - you being targeted?" she asked.

"Maybe. Don't understand how, though. I was very careful….about not being followed. That's twice…"

A hand reached down between them and put a tea towel with ice cubes wrapped inside into his hand. Jack Smallwood. Sherlock took it and pressed it to the back of his head with a small groan.

"Not careful enough, then, William. Or you were followed by professionals. A front tail?"

"Don't see how. Thank you, Jack."

He looked at Lord Smallwood properly for the first time in something like fifteen years. He is older, but also older than that; grey skinned, shrunken, his face heavily lined. Has aged too far and too fast. Understands why Lady Smallwood is worried about him. But the sharpness remained in the hazel eyes, and the set of his mouth was still firm and humorous.

Sherlock reached out for a Regency hall chair, levered himself up, and sat heavily on it; he was disappointed to find it was as uncomfortable as it was meant to be. He fumbled into the secret squeeze pocket at his waist and withdrew the little memory stick. As he did so the driver cum bodyguard returned, pistol in hand, shaking his head.

"Sorry, ma'am. They were too quick. Two shapes in the dark. A black Audi. The plates may show up on CCTV…."

"It will be a cloned plate, George," informed Sherlock with resignation. "That car has been used before. Targetting me, not Madame. I will go in just a moment, remove the focus from here…." He didn't mention the lurch of memory he cannot quite reach about a black Audi, or his knowledge of the identity of the car that killed Nicholas Haig. A black Audi. Three black Audis is now three too many.

"Drive him home, George. Not the Ghost - too conspicuous. Take my Volkswagen, out through the back gate. Sherlock will be with you in the kitchen in a moment."

George Bradshaw nodded and withdrew, closing and bolting the front door behind him after a final look outside and switching off the security lights.

"What do you have for me?"

He handed her the memory stick, explained who created it and where he found it. Explained about the interview, the changed copy, Magnussen's invitation to lunch.

"This file may just give you the edge, Elizabeth. Forewarn you at least; about yourselves and others. Useful for the select committee too. There are some strange connections you may not know; connections you can use and put pressure on to neutralise the Magnussen connection. You will know when you read it." He hesitated then continued:

"And it seems he is after me. Me specifically. A cul de sac target and a mere distraction, I hope."

"In that case you need to stop this. It is getting too personal, too dangerous for you. Stop this right now."

"I can't. If this becomes an official investigation he will slip through the net. You know this. He is wily and clever and knows how to work the system to his advantage. You will lose because you are bound by rules and laws that do not bend under the pressure of clever and powerful adversaries like Magnussen. But I am not bound by any of those rules. Neither is Magnussen. And I intend to win."

They looked at each other. Impasse.

"Sherlock…..?"

"The man is more dangerous than even you are aware. But I have the advantage. I know who he is and what he is capable of. And….." he hesitated, looked away from her fierce regard. "He is attracted to me. A lever I can and will use, however I have to use it."

"Too dangerous. What he might do to you. I mean it. So I will escalate action. Make it official. Go through the proper channels. I should have done this in the first place…."

"NO!" He shouted out like that rarely, and immediately punched his hands over his mouth to stop himself shouting anything more, watched her flinch in surprise and her husband move protectively towards her. But he could not apologise. His head hurt and he was on the edge of losing control. "No," he repeated, more gently.

"He….is not just after you and Jack. He is also after Mycroft, Elizabeth. Read the memory stick, you will see…why he is after me, I think. Me as me. But also as a means to get to Mycroft. He is stupid enough to think I am Mycroft's weakness, the way to bending Mycroft to his will.

"I cannot allow that. Mycroft is important. He makes a difference to the world in ways I never could. And I…" he faltered. Aborted whatever it was he was going to say. "It's down to me. Do whatever is needed. Do you understand?"

He was impossible to reason with or dissuade in this mood, and she recognised that. She shook her head, arguing with his assessment, understanding he neither knew nor cared.

"Ask me for help. Ask for whatever you need."

"I need…" he dropped his head, resented having to be so honest, but knowing he had no choice. "I need you not to tell Mycroft. If he knows he will try to help me. Stop me or save me. Any intervention from him will complicate the issue. Whatever he would want to do would hinder me. If he gets involved his presence will distract me and I will fail. Do you understand?"

"Yes. I do. But I should not have got you involved. I am sorry."

"Don't be. Too late. Someone has to sort this, put a stop to it. Who else but me? Honestly?" he looked up into her eyes then, and gave her the sweetest and gentlest smile she had ever seen, and despite herself she smiled back.

"Tomorrow I go to Copenhagen to talk to Ellie and Ari Sorensun. I need their viewpoint and anything else I can find. I may be a couple of days. I will be in touch when I return. "

"I shall investigate this memory stick. Be careful, Sherlock. And come back safe."

"Of course." His reply was dismissive, as if there could be no alternative.

He sketched a brief bow in farewell to both of them, stepped into the kitchen and was gone, leaving a damp tea towel of dripping ice cubes behind him.

Jack and Elizabeth Smallwood looked at each other. There was nothing left to say. She grasped the memory stick tightly in her hand. They listened to Sherlock Holmes and George Bradshaw leave their home, listened to the car start up, drive away. The silence of the house deepened around them.

TO BE CONTINUED….

 **Author's Notes:**

Sir Humphrey is the clever and conniving government permanent secretary played by the late Sir Nigel Hawthorne in Michael Jay and Jonathan Lynn's legendary BBC TV comedy/satire series _Yes, Minister_ and _Yes, Prime Minister._

Cothill is a famous boys preparatory school in Oxfordshire. Coincidentally, with close links to a Pike family that is certainly not Langdale Pike's! But Langdale will appear soon. So to mark the Pike connection will dedicate this chapter to the late George and Gabrielle Pike, with much love and fond memories.

PPE is the interdisciplinary post graduate course that combines Philosophy, Politics and Economics that was pioneered by Oxford University in the 1920's. It was created to provide a more modern and expansive alternative to reading Classics ('Greats' or Literae Humaniores) for those particularly intending to enter the civil service. Graduates have included David Cameron, William Hague, Bill Clinton and former Australian Prime Minister Tony Abbott. The BBC has described PPE as 'dominating public life' in the UK.

The Diogenes Club was created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for the original series of stories, mainly in _The Greek Interpreter._ Mycroft was allegedly one of the founders of the club. Other writers and film makers have utilised the concept of the club and designated it as the hub of the British Secret Service. There is a strict rule of no talking (three strikes and you are expelled!) but there is a Stranger's Room where conversation is allowed: in _Sherlock_ Mycroft appears to have his own office there. The distinctive exterior as used in _Sherlock_ for the Diogenes Club is on Carlton House Terrace, London and belongs to the charity The British Academy.

The Spaniards is a real and famous and beautiful ancient public house in Hampstead. Worth a visit and does great food!

Hall chairs are small, often intricately decorated, wooden chairs kept in the hallways of large English houses. A politeness to accommodate visitors waiting for attention, they were always made rather uncomfortable to sit on so visitors would be seated so uncomfortably, they would eventually rather leave than wait!

.

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	9. Chapter 9

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 9: "…watched all we had…"

An especially long bonus chapter to entertain you after the end of Series 4. Nothing to do with me, Sherlock made me do it!

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

No-one bothered to give a second look to the young man waiting to board the daily 6.55am flight from Heathrow's Terminal Two to Copenhagen's Kastrup Airport.

Just another student tourist with a grey backpack over denim jacket and blue hoodie, jungle print earbuds of such a startling orange and pink they deflected attention from a face that was everyday handsome by Scandinavian standards - sharp cheekbones in an angular ascetic face, pale grey eyes, dark blond hair swept sharply back with combing fingers and product.

He swayed from the hips as he walked, lips moving to a murmur of music that sounded suspiciously like Beyonce, face bland and concentration elsewhere. Nothing special.

The plane mainly held breakfast time transit regulars, nearly all schedule-strapped businessmen, so boarding was quick and quietly efficient, and the young man settled into J9, strapped himself into his seat and took out a newspaper. A standard UK red top, all predictable gossip screaming headlines and even more predictable girly photographs.

He flicked through the pages, glancing over stories of footballers and their wives, medical mismanagement, odd shaped vegetables and agony column advice. The centre spread seemed to catch his eye, and he lingered on that for a moment

 **Busy Body of Busy-body 'tec! No step Sherlock!**

A montage of photographs; Sherlock Holmes, looking wrecked, sitting on a doorstep. Sherlock Holmes on that same doorstep in the arms of a woman in a dressing gown. Sherlock Holmes stepping out of the front door and crossing the same step, hand in hand with a different young woman with long straight hair in a ponytail. Sherlock Holmes hugging a woman in a business suit, hair piled high. None of the women were recognisable, facing away from the camera.

' _Top celebrity detective Sherlock Holmes has a busy life. Even though his constant companion and former flatmate Dr John Watson is away on honeymoon - having married pretty blonde nurse Mary Morstan two weeks ago - Sherlock has not been missing his old chum or been lonely. In fact he has been busy._

 _Bit of a tangled morning yesterday on the streets of London for the private detective as he arrived at a friend's home in Victoria in the early hours looking wrecked. But as we see, he got a warm welcome, stayed - changed into his usual cool gear of trendy suit and great coat - and then there were cuddles on the doorstep before he left with a different mystery girl._

 _Great to be so popular, Sherlock! This guy is not only a hit with the girls for his hero lifestyle, great dress sense and good looks, but he also serenades them with his vibrant violin, as he proved earlier this week performing at a police charity gala and making sweet music to one and all. Lucky girls!_

He glared at the newspaper and dropped it onto the floor. Not perhaps as bad as he had expected; the worst thing was that it existed at all and someone had been watching him, ready to gloat, to bully, to pounce.

Then he unfolded the _Daily Briefing_ and read Kitty's article that was not Kitty's. The suspicion had to be that Magnussen's rewrite the evening before had been done and pushed through to match the timing of the sleazy article printed in every other red top except that one. Magnussen playing games? Turning them all into three dimensional chess pieces and taking the moral high ground as well as the lead in exposing whatever he wanted Sherlock Holmes to become.

And Sherlock had no doubt what that was, The content of the article meant nothing to him - is was as sycophantic as it was arch, creative and wrong.

Kitty's version of his story had made him appear remote, romantic, multi skilled and mysterious. Magnussen's rewrite made him merely a tall, dark and handsome dilettante, self indulgent and getting results by a combination of good luck and charm.

Nothing of this touched him, merely irritated.

He had tried to help Kitty. Tried to do his best for her. But Magnussen had been driven by his need to make his mark, assume control, prove himself to Sherlock. The strange taste in his mouth was bitter but unfocussed.

The text from Kitty had arrived at 3am as he was standing over the sink dyeing his hair.

 **3am: See Daily Herald today. Nothing to do with me. Sorry anyway. Kitty.**

DELETE

As he dried his hair and styled it away from his face she texted again.

 **3.21am: Same pix in all the red tops except us. Daily Briefing with your feature copy as M. rewrote it. Sorry again. K**

DELETE

REPLY

 **3.23am: Repeat. Not your fault. Can you identify original photo source? SH**

He put his elbows on the seat arms, steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them, deep in thought.

He had a vague memory of seeing a flash of light as Kitty Haig helped him into her house; paparazzi photographers? But how did they get to the right place at the right time? How would they even know where he was, and what was happening? After all - he didn't!

Unless he was being followed all the time? No, he knew he wasn't; he could throw off Mycroft's MI6 professionals, so he would have no trouble with spotting and losing galumphing newspapermen - Magnussen was behind it. There was no alternative.

Moriarty was dead, wasn't he? And he had spent two long thankless years culling Moriarty's network. So it had to be Magnussen.

Magnussen had set up the situation, knowing that at the time he was more or less insensible, malleable, more than ready to be taken advantage of. For pressure, leverage, damage, destruction, humiliation. Demonstrating his power.

Were they his photographers? Was the Dane's intention to humiliate him in public with the photographs? To assume that embarrassment really would give Magnussen power over him? Dent his confidence? Destroy his public image? Get Sherlock's friends and contacts to doubt him? Want to avoid him? Or something totally opposite - to initiate a pathetic faith in Magnussen? A belief that the Dane would not destroy him the way the rest of the press was happy to?

None of those considerations influenced him, but he suddenly realised how deep the Smallwood's fears were because of such thoughts and possibilities, and how destructive that fear could become to people who cherished their reputations, craved affection and respect. How much Magnussen's threats would destroy the secretive, the guilty, the sensitive, the proud.

He had texted Molly to warn her about the newspaper content, even though she was not recognisable from the photographs. He expected Kitty would do her best to try and find the picture and story source for him, but he had little doubt they had come anonymously into, and been distributed by, one of the major news agencies. Paparazzi, was it?

But how did they know where he was? Who was hunting him and had chased him down? Who found him? And why bother?

It was a power play, a determination of authority, an attempt to wrong foot and demoralise him. But Sherlock had no intention of playing that game.

Which was why he was heading to Copenhagen to see Ellie and Ari Sondersun.

The short flight gave him time to think and physically relax; ear buds were a great aid to making sure other people left him alone and did not try to engage in friendly conversation he did not welcome.

The airport, on the island of Amanger, only five miles from the city centre, was bright and modern despite having been one of the first civilian airports in the world, and from arrival at Terminal Three he was able to drop down to the Copenhagen Metro and be in the centre of Denmark's capital city in less than twenty minutes. And still not 11am.

The book signing Ellie Sondersun was to attend was at a small but well favoured speciality bookshop off Vaernedamsveg, a popular street of small specialist shops and boutiques, and he had time to drop off the backpack at a guest house he had used before and close to the harbour before ambling across town in the guise of an ordinary tourist.

Having located the right shop, he found he was an early arrival, so scouted the area. Window shopping as aimlessly as other visitors to the quiet and cobblestoned capital city, he gathered himself some window dressing; a Copenhagen baseball cap and a tourist guide to peep out of his jacket pocket.

He liked Copenhagen, a pretty and informal city that was quieter and more laid back than London, where street dining was popular and history was never far away from modern life. Back at the bookshop a small queue had formed, and Ellie Sondersun was sitting at a table, chatting and signing copies of her book about the modern refugee phenomenon - _Where Is The Promised Land?_

A short queue of people were in front of the table where Ellie Sondersun was holding court. Sleek chestnut hair in a trendy bob, poised slim figure, dark brown eyes and great dress sense in a sackcloth linen trouser suit.

She had a smile and short conversation for everyone whose book she signed, and all was calm, charming and civilised. Sherlock tagged himself onto the end of the queue, and garnered himself some sideways glances. In old hoodie and jeans, blonde hair slicked back, he looked louche, dangerous and far too street to be engaging with Ellie Sondersun and her book, and he was aware of the eyes of the obvious bodyguard standing by her side, and the more anonymous female backup pretending to browse the bookshelves.

Both were watching him keenly as if he was a robber or potential kidnapper. He smiled wryly to himself at the thought. Looking as he did, he would be suspicious of himself.

But Ellie Sondersun had a broader consciousness than that.

She greeted him with a smile as he held out the book he had just purchased.

"So pleased you are interested in my book," she said with a friendly smile. "How would you like me to sign it for you? The name?"

She had a blue fountain pen poised with a broad nib filled with black ink.

He smiled ingenuously back at her, dipped his head in greeting and said very quietly, in a voice quite unlike his normal public school baritone: "Jack Smallwood."

No-one would have noticed the break in the smile unless looking very closely and standing very close. Like Sherlock.

"You are not he," she said, still smiling. Just in case anyone was watching. "Who are you?" she demanded quietly."

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied, in his normal voice, but very softly. "And I know about Magenta Rose, too. You have a common enemy." As he spoke she bent her head and began to write. So her face was masked from him, and anyone else.

Then she looked up with a blank yet stunning smile, blew on the wet ink to dry it, snapped the book shut and handed it to him.

"So lovely to meet you," she said, and dismissed him.

He walked away, flipping through the book. On the frontispiece the new writing said:

 _Bar Roxy, 2_ _nd_ _left 1 hour_

So that is where he went.

The brightly coloured café sold a variety of teas and coffees as well as pressed juices and organic patisserie. After walking a square around Bar Roxy and getting his bearings, he bought an iced coffee, took himself upstairs to a tiny cramped overspill third floor and sat nursing his drink with the ear buds and Beyonce keeping him company. Working the image. Blocking out the rest of the world.

He was sitting head down, inconspicuous, intent on his phone, when someone sat down opposite him.

"Hi there! Haven't seen you for ages! What have you been up to?"

The girl who grinned into his face had short blonde hair, bright blue eyes, a sprinkle of freckles a mug of latte and a wicked grin.

"You mistake me for someone else," he said without warmth. He fought to contain his face into bland indifference: for one wrenching moment he had thought it was Mary Morstan - the same face shape, short blonde curls, the same energy. It had given him a jolt of surprise. But then he remembered Mary really was miles away, on honeymoon with John Watson.

The girl leant in towards him, elbows on the table, chin on her hands.

"No! Definitely not. You were at the bonfire. I saw you there. Remember?"

Something twisted inside his heart and his blood burnt cold in his veins. Bonfire. John Watson. Save John Watson!

"I am not a child. I don't go to bonfires," he pinged out the last word, to all intents taciturn, bored. In reality he was jolted into firing on all cylinders now, hyper vigilante, hyper alert, skin and senses prickling with electricity.

"Everyone should go to a bonfire." she said merrily, eyes twinkling. "Something on a bucket list to do before you die."

There was something intent behind her eyes. And he didn't like it. How did -could - anyone know who he was? And where he was? The only person who knew was Ellie Sondersun. And she had had no time to bring in troops…but troops did not look like this. Or talk about bonfires.

"Why would you assume someone at a bonfire is going to die?" Sherlock asked mildly, a disinterested stranger humouring another, feigning interest out of feigned politeness.

"No assumption," she smiled cheerily at him. " Except it's what we all do eventually. Die. But before they die, some people burn. On bonfires. At bonfires. Under bonfires."

She had all of his attention, and she knew it. She was working every word for it's meaning, and enjoying his discomfort. She reached for his hand in a mockery of intimacy, but he drew it back.

"Funny the things we lose in the flames, when you think about it. Hearts, for example. Hearts burnt out of you. Bonfires made out of vanities."

"Who are you? And why are you talking these meaningless riddles to me?"

"I'm Marie. And I'm talking to you because….well, you're handsome. You are here. And you're English. I'm English too."

She was playing with him. He stood up.

"And riddles are not meaningless," she continued. "You just have to work them out."

"You have definitely mistaken me for someone else," he said politely but with a chill in his voice. "And I have an appointment elsewhere."

He stood to leave, and she let him; still smiling.

"Bye bye, sweetheart. See you again. And we'll have more fun."

Almost running down the stairs and out of the door, he bumped into a woman. She dropped the handbag and books in her arms, and he bent with conditioned good manners to pick them up for her. He half straightened and looked into the eyes of Ellie Sondersun.

"Compromised. Go," he whispered.

"She took the books and bag from him without any hint she had heard him. Smiled polite but distant thanks.

"Bissengarde 23 8pm" she said under her breath, and passed into the café. He emerged into the sunshine, wandered towards the harbour, and spent the rest of the day as a tourist; taking a boat cruise around the harbour, visiting the preserved boats, an art gallery. Took coffee and cake in the sunshine. Browsed through his new book.

He had time alone and to think. And he did not like his thoughts.

Who was this girl called Marie? How did she find him? Why did she pretend to know him? Why taunt him and talk of bonfires and of hearts burnt? Who was behind it?

Magnussen? The logical choice. Moriarty? But he was dead,waisn't he? Mary Morstan? Why did he think of Mary Morstan? Why did that smiling girl he would never trust look so much like Mary Morstan? Was that the type of female looks Magnussen liked? Trusted? The thought made him falter in mid-step.

What was it he was trying not to think about Mary Morstan? That he kept pushing out of his mind in deference to John Watson? To their friendship? Why was he not thinking about Mary - when he always thought too much about everything? And what were the thoughts about her he turned from, yet worry at him the most?

No, not her mere presence; he had always known that at some point John Watson would find a woman and leave him. That was only natural, that was right.

For it was not proper for him to have friends or try to keep them. That was not what or who he was. No. He was not jealous of Mary because she existed. He was worried about Mary because of how she existed; and therefore just who she was.

Two things - small in themselves - especially nagged at him.

That when he reintroduced himself to John Watson at the restaurant to reveal that he was alive she had not been pleased. "Oh no," she had said, as if mortified. Then "Oh God. You're dead." No welcome, naturally not, but something between clamped down panic or despair. Even though she knew how much Watson had missed him. Finally - finally - she then judged his actions with professional objectivity, despite John Watson's presence.

"He would need a confidante," she had agreed with Sherlock. As her lover and fiance frowned at her, suspicious now, and feeling betrayed. Getting herself on Sherlock's side, was she? Exercising her own professional judgement? Luring him into trust?

For John's happiness he had put those immediate and instinctive alarm bells aside. Tried to get to know and like the woman his best friend loved. Win her onto his side, just as she wanted him on onto hers. To allow her to become the triangulation point between himself and Watson. Even plan her wedding for her, dress, napkins, seating plan and everything, to prove his good faith and good will.

And yet. And yet even before he had played the waltz he had written especially for them, before he had diagnosed the reason for her sickness and distaste for food and drink…..before his self abasing best man's speech, before that… there had been the wedding telegrams to read.

That strange one. The one that mentioned only Mary by name. Made a mean quip about her parents. The telegram called her 'poppet' and was signed by Cam. He did not know anyone called Cam. Nor did John. So only Mary, then. And she had never explained. Cameron, was it? Campbell? Morecambe? He had meant to ask her - because both he and Watson had spotted her disquiet at that telegram - but there had been a murder to solve and then there was no time, and the moment had passed. But that word 'poppet' had bothered him too. Still did.

That was normally a term of endearment to a child, a female child. Yet Mary Morstan was no child. And 'poppet' remained a strange word. Had he been the only person at the wedding who knew the older meaning of the word? Derived from 'puppet' and meaning a small doll (Mary was female, feminine and small. Doll like? Perhaps. To someone.) used as a tool in sorcery. Had Mary been a tool of some sort of modern sorcery? The endearment as a chilling reminder of a position only she would understand? And that from the only person Sherlock knew of as CAM - Charles Augustus Magnussen? Head of CAM News?

Sherlock had spent months desperately trying to not put two and two together and come up with four, he really had. But how much longer could he ignore the intelligence and the growing suspicions screaming at him? And what would happen then? Especially with Magnussen so much in his face, in his mind, filling his consciousness and his fears?

His thoughts went round and round. He needed to go back to Nicholas Haig's memory stick; to Kitty. He needed to speak to Jack and Elizabeth Smallwood. He needed not to talk to his brother. And he wanted - for his peace of mind - to not see Mary Morstan, Mary Watson, whoever and whatever that person really was. But how could he do that and still see his best friend - her husband? Not betray his friend without expressing, or simply being unable to hide, his fears about this new wife? And how, in all conscience, could he not?

Never one to empathise with others especially, even he knew that any criticism he had or made of the new Mrs Watson would lead to accusations - of childish jealousy because she had displaced him in Watson's regard at best, of corrosive self importance at worst. Yet he felt neither of these things. Just a fear for John Watson he could neither talk himself out of nor dispel. So all he could do was watch and wait. And be ready for when Watson needed him.

He needed John Watson like …he hesitated to say like a flower needed sunshine. For that was cheap and sentimental, and inaccurate. And he needed nobody; he never had before, had he? And he was never any of those things. So one thing was clear now. He needed to stay out of John Watson's way. He needed John Watson to stay away from him. For his own safety. Out of his love for the man.

Three years ago he had died and gone into exile to save his best friend's life. Oh yes, he saved Lestrade and Mrs Hudson too. But mainly his sacrifice, his willing sacrifice of himself, had been for John Watson. He had no fear for himself, no interest in his own survival or future. He had stayed away for two years to coldly remove the threat Moriarty's henchmen posed to John Watson. And when he had returned John Watson had been…..different. Changed. Marked. Different inside and dancing to another tune. That of conventionality and a woman's love.

The old Watson would have seen that Sherlock had come home damaged on the outside and broken within. And the doctor that he was would have tried to heal him He needed healing. He needed healing so much he hated to even think about it, and he felt the corrosive difference within himself from the man he had been then and how he was now, and which pained him.

But the new Watson did not see and did not care. His loyalties were transferred now to the new woman, the new love, in his life. He had moved on. Yet the new Sherlock still had the loyalties of the old, even if the new Watson did not.

So he had to save Watson all over again. This new Watson - because the old Watson still had to be in there, somewhere; surely he must?. Save Watson from bonfires, from the dangerous, unknown people who put him into bonfires. Save Watson from the danger his new wife might lead him into? Sherlock felt a traitor to John Watson to even let such thoughts into his head. Yet if he did not - how could he protect his friend?

Whatever happened, Watson was still his friend. His only friend. And if, to do his best for his friend he had to send him away….was that not true, selfless, committed friendship? To act without gain or favour, or expectation of either? Sherlock knew the answer to that without conscious thought. But that did not help.

There was no answer to the conundrum. Not as yet. More facts, more data….

He presented himself at the Sondersun's historic stone built terraced house exactly at 8pm and a tall, fair haired man in casual chinos and sloppy sweater answered the door.

"Mr Sondersun?" Sherlock began. "I am…."

"I know who you are. Please come in."

Ari Sondersun gestured him inside and stood back to let him pass. No warmth of welcome, judgement as yet deferred. Sherlock understood that defensiveness.

The house was warm, cosy yet minimalist, well chosen antique furniture, glowing colours. A house of taste and discernment.

There were two people waiting for him in the panelled dining room who stood up from the table in formal greeting when he entered.

Ellie Sondersun and her brother in law, Fredrik. Ari joined them, and they all faced him. Intelligent, alert, committed. Concern held in check, judgement deferred.

Ari Sondersun silently invited him to sit facing them with a stilted gesture of one arm, and he did so.

"Thank you for seeing me, I apologise for the somewhat melodramatic introduction. I wanted my meeting with you to be covert."

They looked at him - a tousled streetwise young man in scruffy clothes - and then looked at each other. It was Ellie Sondersun who spoke.

"You know Jack Smallwood? You represent him?"

"Yes. You want to telephone him and confirm?"

He held out his mobile with the Smallwood number already keyed in. She looked down at it, back up at him, and relaxed somewhere deep inside herself.

"Very few people have that private telephone number. And despite the hair and the clothes I do actually recognise you, Mr Holmes."

"That makes things easier."

He sat back into the chair, hands relaxed on the table. Despite his appearance his senses were at full alert. He could hear the hum of a recording device running nearby, was also aware of someone unseen listening in the next room.

Sensible precautions he would have undertaken himself. But he would have liked to know the identity of the secret listener.

"We have checked on you since this morning. You pass muster. And here because of Charles Augustus Magnussen, we assume?" Ari Sondersun had a charming smile, was male model handsome but with the saving grace of a natural gravitas. A member of parliament. A potential Danish Prime Minister? Yes, Sherlock could see that capacity, the intelligence and indefinable quiet charisma in the man.

"Yes. He threatens Jack Smallwood with blackmail to stop Lady Smallwood focussing on him through her parliamentary investigation into abuse of press power. I assume you know what that lever is."

"Ellie - in a different lifetime. And therefore us."

"Indeed. Magnusson has a line of pressure we feel he intends to turn on you all: starting with Jack Smallwood and working upwards. You are all connected."

"Jack will protect himself and Ellie. Ellie will protect Ari and myself. I will protect Piet. My other half."

Fredrik Sondersun was taller and more ascetic than his younger brother. Lean, controlled, less given to smiling. Almost saturnine. The Greek statue next to the vital human being that was his younger brother. Perhaps, reflected Sherlock, because he felt he had more of himself to hide; and a younger brother and sister-in-law to look after.

"Indeed," Sherlock confirmed. "And we feel he may also turn his attention on your mother and sister and Magenta Rose, Mrs Sondersun."

"No-one knows about Magenta Rose," Ellie snapped.

"Magenta Rose is the professional escort agency that is most closely tied to Parliament and the inner workings of not only the British government, but other governments and embassies also," Sherlock explained briefly: not to explain to one who already knew, but to demonstrate knowledge. "Magenta Rose is trusted, classy and discreet. Totally admirable in meeting a need." He paused, watched Ellie Sondersun's face change.

"I know. I do not judge. Magnussen knows. He will judge. There is no such thing as a secret," Sherlock contined quietly.

"Did your brother tell you this?"

Ellie Sondersun half rose from her seat in something between shame and anger.

"Please calm down, Mrs Sondersun. My brother tells me nothing, and I do not ask. He does not know I am here. Or even that I am involved in this. I am not his tool. This goes no further than ourselves and the Smallwoods. I am here purely at the behest of Lord and Lady Smallwood."

Sherlock paused. Made calming motions with his hands. "This will only work if you trust me and each other and we unite to defeat Magnussen. Do you understand?"

He waited while the other three looked at each other in some silent communication. Waited until they nodded their heads.

"What do you want to know?" Ellie asked.

"How you know Smallwood, and why. And how the letters got into Magnussen's hands."

She sighed and shifted on her chair.

"It seems like it happened so someone else, in a different lifetime," she began.

"You know my mother's line of business. It seemed very normal to me, growing up. But I had a different ambition. I wanted…..the sort of life and career I have now. So I decided early on I would make money to pay my way through university by going into the family business. It seemed only practical."

"But you were underage. It was illegal. How did your mother….?"

"My mother never knew. I wormed my way into her office system and made my own bookings. Which was how I met Jack Smallwood. He was a rising star, I was a young escort. He never knew how young. But he was charming, and kind, and we got on well.

"He…he was my first." She ducked her head, not quite in shame or apology, but perhaps discomforted by remembrance of the immaturity of her decisions. "He was lovely. Gentle. Understanding. I could have had - endured - something, someone, much worse. Less considerate, less human.

"I had a crush on him. Perhaps you can understand that, Mr Holmes? Oh well, perhaps not."

She looked up at him and saw blank incomprehension on his face, which was an improvement on the disgust she had expected.

"So I wrote him a letter. Thanking him. Nothing gushing, nothing to be embarrassed by. I was surprised when he wrote back. But he was young, handsome, unmarried, too busy carving a career in politics for wining and dining a girlfriend. So I became his pen pal, almost. We flirted on the page. It was fun. And then, before we could start anything…proper? Improper? Whatever, who cares now? Well, he found out how old I was. He wrote to me immediately and wrote me off. That's life, I suppose."

"Why did you keep the letters he sent you?"

"Because I was still fond of him. Still am, in a way. A whisper from the past, to remind me never to forget where I came from. Anyway, truth is, he was nice; sweet. He had acted for the best, throughout. I did not blame him for dropping me, I could see his position. He had a spotless life to live. I watched his star rise, and was genuinely thrilled for him.

"It was only later my mother discovered I had been earning my own university money and how; but she never knew about Jack."

"You kept a weather eye on him."

"And he on me." She looked across at Sherlock with defiance on her eyes. "We are good people, Mr Holmes. Despite earning Magnussen's attention."

"So when did you learn the letters were missing?"

"We didn't," Ari Sondersun spoke up then, his hand reassuringly on his wife's shoulder.

"When Jack got word to us two years ago about the threat of blackmail, we went into our archives to find Ellie's letters. And they were still there. However, when we looked closer it was clear someone had taken the originals, copied them, and left the copies with us as substitutes. Cool and clever."

"How and when was the trick worked?"

" We can only think it happened four years ago when we moved to this house. Which would mean Magnussen must have bribed or blackmailed someone in the removal company."

"Yes, he uses agents freely. Never does his own dirty word until delivering the final thrust. So how do you think your letters to Jack were acquired from the Smallwoods?"

"He swears he thought he had destroyed them. But we assume shredded paperwork can be pieced back together…or was copied beforehand, just like mine was."

"In the time that has elapsed, have you had any thoughts as to how you can challenge or defy Magnussen?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, oh yes."

Ellie Sondersun rose and crossed to a bureau, took out an old rectangular biscuit tin and passed it to Sherlock Holmes, sat back down.

He opened it. A collection of postcards. Old postcards in garish colours, London postcard views with brief joking messages in black ink. Notelets and pop star cards from the same era, the same jokey mood. Signed Ellie to Jack, Jack to Ellie.

Sherlock liftedone and read:

 _Thank you for rescuing me when I got lost in the House - and for finding my school crocodile for me! Very kind of you. I must ask you for career tips - watch this space! Ellie Driscoll._

A postcard of Parliament.

 _Thank you for your card, Ellie. Could not leave a young lady in distress, happy to help. Any advice my young constituent needs, just let me know. Best wishes, John Smallwood_

There was a line of cards in the same cheerful, friendly but distant vein.

"Forgeries?" asked Sherlock.

"Of course. Alternative history, smokescreen, alibi. Whatever," said Ari Sondersun.

Sherlock took the postcards, peered at them carefully through his magnifying lens.

"Good forgeries," he adjudged finally. "Period cards from a collection?"

"Yes," responded Ellie. "And period ink, too. Amazing what you can find on eBay when determined."

She held open her hands to Sherlock, leant forward. "This was my response. The little schoolgirl lost in the corridors of power rescued by a lonely knight in shining armour scenario." She smiled at the irony. "History rewritten. "Can we use these as our weapon in return?"

Sherlock sat back and thought, fingering the cards as he did so; there was seventeen of them - a full history of a lighthearted, brief and totally innocent communication.

"Blackmail is an invidious crime. But to be successful it depends on blackmailer and victim agreeing to be complicit. Like bullies at school. Actually blackmailers have often been bullies at school. Blackmail is the adult extension of it," he explained thoughtfully. "Bullies are despicable. And rarely grow out of the character trait."

He thought of bullies in his past. Just briefly. Remembered the rush of fear, the taste of bile, the abasement and physical pain…..pushed the thoughts back into their box in the Mind Palace and came back to the present.

" In the UK blackmail did not even exist as a criminal act until 1968," he mused. "Some people think blackmail should not be a crime as it is all about gossip, privacy and opinion, and all that should be licit, they say. Yet a great English law lord famously described blackmail as one of the most vicious crimes on the statute book as it is attempted murder of the soul. Would you agree?"

Heads nodded. Sherlock smiled.

"To stop Magnussen we can try these clever little cards and notes as black propaganda; fight fire with fire. The trick is to offer up your forgeries as if not under duress, as if a spontaneous act of nostalgia and kindness."

He sat and thought for a moment.

"In less than two weeks time Jack Smallwood is to be presented with an award at a celebratory dinner to mark his thirty years leading his family business. The company secretary has - behind Jack's back for the best of reasons - been canvassing people for memories and tributes. These forgeries could come forward as a tribute to show the kindness of the man towards a very ordinary teenager. How he inspired her to succeed. That would go a long way in scotching the blackmail threat. Undermining the truth. I don't see how Magnussen could defy that without showing his hand."

"That…sounds too good to be true."

"No. You had already taken the measure of the problem. You have only been awaiting the opportunity to parry the thrust. We simply need to warn Jack about your surprise, and for me to put you in contact with his secretary so you can offer proof and your own innocent tribute to kindness from long ago. Yes? Hold your nerve, keep smiling benignly and we shall defeat this."

"And if it doesn't work?"

"We think of something else. At worse you face Magnussen down. He wants to get Smallwood because he wants Lady Smallwood and the government enquiry off his back. But he will still get you two if he can. Do not be complacent. We shall work this."

"He is after me too?" Ari Sondersun was grave.

"Why not? Influence in the Danish Parliament would please Magnussen. And snaring you and your wife would be a double result, neat and tidy. A foot inside the Folketing, his very own national government, would please him greatly. Especially with that foot also taking him, through you, into the Internal Affairs Department. And also with you sitting on the Wamberg Committee. His glee will be unparalleled.

"He wants to manipulate England because that is where he lives and works; a country I suspect he despises for it's famed tolerance and good humour. But he will cheerfully subvert his own country too. What has he got on you?"

Ari Sondersun shook his head.

"Any dirt he digs on my wife will affect and influence me; he knows that. We are upheld in public in this country as the perfect couple; influential and sprinkled with stardust. For our sins." He quirked a rare grin. "Being decent does not stop you becoming a victim. In fact the innocent are more easily snared because they are too innocent to have a defence, yes?" He shook his head softly at the contradictions of the real world. "A Catch-22 situation."

"As for anything else, just the usual stuff; a teenager getting drunk, taking pot, getting into fights. That might be vaguely embarrassing, but not really bother the Danish public. Not as much as Magnussen suspects. Real life. Not the perfect background for a Junior Minister, or potential Prime Minister, but nothing to make a real black mark against me and send me to purgatory. Not these days. Magnussen may not be totally acquainted with current attitudes here….Handled right, this so-called revelation could make me even more a man of the people for voters."

"I agree," Sherlock nodded. "But for you both the true problem is your brother."

Fredrik Sondersun leapt to his feet. Face flushed and angry. His brother put a restraining and reassuring hand onto his arm.

"Stop it! Stop it, now!"

"I cannot change reality, Mr Sondersun," Sherlock said mildly, not moving or reacting in any way. "In a civilised and free thinking country such as Denmark, why have you always kept your homosexuality a secret?"

Fredrik Sondersun dropped back into his chair, suddenly spent like a failed firework. Shook his head in something like defeat tinged with acceptance of the inevitable.

"It was shame, at first. I have always know who and what I am. But that is hard to live with as a schoolboy. Secrecy and denial became second nature to me. I went into the forces to prove my masculinity. How predictable is that?

"But I was a good soldier, Mr Holmes. A good tactician. A planner and a decision maker. I, too could have been a politician! But moving on to the Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe was a more logical and natural step for me. I found my forte, planning, protecting, involving, overseeing security in Denmark, in the whole of Europe, to a large degree. I enjoy my career and am good at it. I know secrets. I make secrets. I keep my country safe.

"So does my brother. We are professionally interdependent, you might say." he drew in a deep and ragged breath. Looked up and made a decision; a decision to confide.

"Finally - finally - I met the love of my life. That is my real secret."

He shook his head, smiled a little, looked up at Sherlock.

"The love of my life is handsome, clever - cleverer than I - and I cannot live without him. Piet Bruhl. Deputy Director of Denmark's equivalent of your SAS - the _JaegerKorps_."

Fredrik Sondersun, with a wobble in his voice, finally met the cool eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

"Between the three of us there is little about the security and defence of Europe Ari, Piet and I do not know or influence between us. That Ellie could not give legal advice on. Ironic, yes? If we are blackmailed, whether to protect each others secrets, or to refuse to expose government secrets to Magnussen, we are then honour bound to betray ourselves and each other for the greater good.

"If the thought and action of that becomes intolerable to us, and we are forced to resign together, it is no exaggeration to say the vacuum created will rock Europe's security and it's very foundations.

"Do you understand the enormity of the sheer obscenity of the power and the existence of this hateful, twisted man with no moral compass?"

Fredrik Sondersun is so angry he has to grip the arms of his chair to contain himself. His voice fails him suddenly, and his brother turns and squeezes his arm in a gesture of support and comfort.

"Unfortunately what my brother says is true, Mr Holmes." Ari looks across at Sherlock with eyes both bruised and fatalistic. "Are you sure you want to deal with this?"

Sherlock looks at all three of them for long moments, evaluating. Ellie, pale and horror-stricken. Fredrik, vibrating with anger and shame. Ari carrying the burdens of the world. But there is no calculation to be made, no decision to be justified.

"Someone has to be here and it is me. The bottom line is quite simple. I hate a man who victimises others for not being like him. For being special, or different or simply human. This is why Lady Smallwood chose me to deal with this for her. For you, too."

The three people in front of him look at each other, back at him.

"You understand how difficult this will be for you? How dangerous? For you personally?" Fredrik Sondersun demands.

Sherlock sits back in his chair. Relaxes deliberately so they can see this and for it to give them confidence. Puts his elbows on the chair arms and steeples his fingers under his chin in a very characteristic gesture.

"Why would that make any difference to me? Thoughtful of you to mention it, but I do not change my mind. All I need is for you to keep me informed on what you decide, and to listen to me."

"You will really tackle this?" Ellie Sondersun is incredulous.

"How many times need I say it?" Sherlock asks, a whisper of frustration in his voice now. "I have started this quest - on Lady Smallwood's behest. So now I must finish it. The hare is already running."

TO BE CONTINUED


	10. Chapter 10

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 10: "…All the things that we had…"

He left the Sondersun house with almost a spring in his step. There was not only going to be a solution to this evil that was Magnussen, but the Sondersun family felt almost like allies. Forearmed and forewarned, and everyone acting in concert, they would combine to foil and defeat the man.

But he knew, even if the others had not yet reached that conclusion, that one solution merely gave space to another victim to fill the void. Magnussen would be lining up his next victims. Nothing would change. The power of a corrupt press would be all, dancing to Magnussen's whims and whoever he decided to target next.

Dealing with one tentacle at a time did not kill the octopus. Magnussen needed stopping, not just deflecting. Parliamentary committees and think tank investigations took years, did not always even reach the right conclusions - even with Lady Elizabeth Smallwood at their head.

He had known this before he began. But had not anticipated the breadth and the width of Maganussen's mania for power and control, and how much anger this sort of persecution would stir in him.

Having always been different to other people, he found he despised a man with too much power so he could pick and choose his victims at will just because they were different. Or had their personal secrets, but still met their responsibilities, thought of other people as well as their own reputations. As most people did, however large or small their secrets, their fears, their life compromises.

The Smallwoods were good people, who had sacrificed to serve and protect their country. The same was true of the Sondersuns: he had been impressed by their candour and courage.

For the Sondersuns had finally believed him. Not what he said - they had an inkling of all that already, understood the intelligence, the tactics, the evil presented that could and would destroy all three of them. If it was not stopped. If Magnussen was not stopped.

Despite their candour, Sherlock recognised there was still part of the Sondersuns they kept in reserve; he realised this and was not concerned by it. For the recording tape had kept running, and they did not admit to it's existance. The secret listener in the next room had remained a secret, and Sherlock did not ask; the trust was too unexpected, still to fragile.

He had achieved more with the Sondersun's than he had ever imagined as it was, and it was best not to try to unpick the web too far, not at this stage. But the door to the other room had remained just ajar as he passed it, and his heightened senses were aware of at least one other person, silent and still and hidden, in that darkened room.

Police - or secret service, perhaps? He did not know and could not tell. But he had done all he could, would facilitate use of the false correspondence to build Jack Smallwood's reputation and innocence and provide an alternative narrative to the one Magnussen held.

So the little puzzle of the men in the other room remained just that. No-one had appeared to challenge or attack him, so that in itself spoke of acceptance and belief.

So it had begun. No going back now, as if that had ever been possible. He had needed to come to Copenhagen, had needed to meet the Sondersun's face to face, assess them properly, talk freely.

He thought perhaps Magnussen had underestimated his opponents in this one. That the line of dominoes that had been set up would not fall as he wanted this time. Was this because he was terrified of what the Parliamentary Select Committee investigating the press would find, would decide - and would censure him?

Or was it that the man was becoming overconfident, was over reaching himself? It was the fatal flaw of all egomaniacs and tyrants, an over confidence and assumption that manipulation successful in the past would always work in the future.

Was he himself an underestimated opponent? The idea pleased him, because it gave him a psychological advantage. Magnussen would know he held the upper hand - because of whatever dominance he had exerted when Sherlock was kidnapped and drugged at Appledore.

The knowledge of manipulation and abuse annoyed rather than upset him. He had known worse and survived intact; abuse and neglect of the transport never felt personal to him and was something separate and more often revelatory about the enemy doing the abusing than of he himself.

Perhaps it was typically neurologically untypical of him, he did not know. It was what he was, and had never mattered.

The Sondersuns were too important to fall, not only because of their roles in Danish life, but because all the people concerned had too much backbone to uphold rather than simply having too much at stake to lose. He was not sure this was something Magnussen could understand or appreciate. This was itself a weakness in the Dane.

Such a weakness would be something to work on. Something to use to make Magnussen work against himself. It was the first weakness Sherlock had found in the character of a powerful and almost untouchable manipulator.

Slowly but surely he was building a picture of the man, building a case. He had more to work on now, more than he had expected.

Tomorrow he would return to Baker Street. Wine and dine Janine and find Magnussen's plans, his movements, his patterns. Janine was more than useful, and it struck him that perhaps her position and connection was not merely a happy accident.

Had Mary Morstan befriended Janine to give herself a position close to the man, just as he himself was doing? Could that be possible? Clearly Janine herself had no inkling of this, but had admitted she was surprised to have been asked to be Mary's chief bridesmaid. Was that all part of the circle closing around the Dane - he and Mary, coming from different sides, different perspectives?

He tried to kill the idea, but it had taken root, and made a horrible sort of sense.

Mary Morstan had explained her lack of wedding guests to being an orphan. But having no-one visible from her life from more than five years back was strange. Even the loneliest only child usually had someone, if merely a distant great aunt, a favourite school teacher, the loyal school friend who kept dogged contact, old work colleagues. Especially from as close knit a work community as nursing.

The lack did not make sense. It defeated logic and normality. And that made Sherlock even more suspicious. Too many aspects about Mary Morstan were proving suspicious, even when trying hard not to look for them.

Why did none of this ever occur to John Watson? Had he really been so totally blindsided by being in love? Or did he take the pragmatic view that she was in a different life now? That at forty she would be bound to have some sort of past, but that it no longer mattered? That was then, this was now? Sherlock heard his own maxim returning to haunt him. Well, he had said this often enough to Watson. He could hardly blame his friend for hearing and heeding.

He knew that at sometime the enigma that was Mary Watson would have to be addressed. But not now - not now, before the woman was even back from honeymoon! Sherlock did not want to face this. Even he knew that nothing good would come from this. And that whatever it was, Watson would never forgive him for bringing it to the surface. Whatever the reason, whatever the excuse.

And yet it was quite possible that Mary and her past could and would put John Watson in danger; put all of them in danger. Then where would they be if Sherlock had never faced the puzzle square on? If Sherlock tried to ignore it the way John and Mary were ignoring it?

For in the final analysis who would protect them, protect all of them, if it wasn't Sherlock? And he had made a vow. A vow he would never, ever renege on. However much it cost…..

His brain chased itself. _Round and round the garden like a teddy bear…_ he remembered taunting Watson about this when they had argued about the solar system. How silly, how innocent, that seemed now. How childishly simple. If only they were back in that place and in that time, and nothing of this complicated and dangerous afterwards had happened.

But there was nothing he could do about that - yet. So pointless worrying about it now. Worry about it later, when John and Mary were home. But don't bother them, don't crowd them. Let them do whatever it is they were going to do, settle into whatever routine was going to suit them both. Stand back. Wait and see, Not precipitate things. Try to keep them at arm's length. But be ready. Whatever there was to be ready for. Sorted. Decided.

Sherlock relaxed a little within himself, stuck his hands into his pockets, put the earbuds back in place, resumed the trendy young man role, walking with that rolling hip-to-the-sound walk.

And so he crossed town, turned quietly onto the harbour side of Nyhavn, breathing in the late evening's peace and quiet after such a hectic day and enjoying the timeless scene of ancient buildings and classic high masted sailing ships that lined the quay.

Tomorrow he would take the breakfast flight back to London, return to the fray. Meet Janine at Angelo's for a meal as they had arranged; meet and talk and find facts but also try to rebut the sexual connection at the same time. _Not easy!_ Then report back to Lord and Lady Smallwood about the new correspondence, and every hold that would be used. Try and find how Magnussen had snagged Jack Smallwood's side of the correspondence; but assume the Sondersuns had been right about that.

Perhaps visit Lestrade and stop him worrying about him; or call in on Molly. Make sure Raz and Jeanne had rescued the Land Rover from the Cotswolds and returned it to Crouch End.

He had been confident Magnussen's minions would never have found the Land Rover in the church car park or identified it as his; without car keys in his pockets, they would have had no idea how he had arrived at Appledore, or where he had even come from. And he wanted that little secret to remain just that, a secret. The old Land Rover was a useful vehicle to have tucked away, and not the sort of vehicle anyone would normally connect with an exotic city dweller like Sherlock Holmes.

And see if Kitty had any news on the source of the newspaper photos and story; although he still felt Magnussen was the source. Even if he had no idea why.

Magnussen. He would have to keep that appointment on Friday. Get close, scope him out. Before the Jack and Ellie bombshell at the Smallwood tribute meal and publicity. Magnussen would not like that, having his lever removed, the threat scotched. Something to maximise….

He hoped the note in the Dane's diary had not included his name, and that Janine had not seen it; hoped Magnussen kept his private appointments up in the penthouse just that - private.

He had no idea what Magnussen really wanted of him. Hoped he didn't. The sexual attraction was only too obvious. Well, he could deal with that. He had dealt with that before, and that did not frighten him, only shame him. It was what else Magnussen wanted from him, why Sherlock would never let the older man that close, that worried him more.

The sexual interest was personal; repulsive but an abasement he could handle if he needed to. And if that helped solve the problem, helped protect everyone it needed to, Mycroft included, Mycroft especially, it was a negligible trade off.

.

But he decided he would take the Guarneri with him to CAM News, and would play. It would provide a distraction and a barrier and demonstrate a willingness he did not actually possess to relate to the Danish media mogul.

Music might lull Magnussen into a false sense of security around Sherlock. Which Sherlock would use to any advantage he could find. For he would have no compunction in playing Magnussen with as much consideration and skill as he would play the violin.

It amused, yet baffled him that both Magnussen and Janine Hawkins should be attracted to him. He looked in a mirror and could see nothing attractive about himself whatsoever. For all his intellectual arrogance, personal vanity had no role in his character.

He saw nothing attractive about himself, externally or internally. Was that a blindspot or a bonus? Or was that a useful reverse assertion of arrogance?

Questions he had asked himself before, and still had never found answers to. He quietened his mind with deliberation and walked on. He needed to settle now after a busy day, relax his consciousness ready for sleep. He was rarely tired, but today he knew it.

Someone in the far distance was walking a dog, some late revellers on the other side of the canal were lurching merrily from one bar to another. A young couple were necking quietly as they leant against a safety rail before some access steps down to the canal.

Glancing across and away quickly, Sherlock saw a young girl with short blonde hair wearing a pretty floral dress, her beau tall, suited and also blond. They seemed to not even see him as he walked past them.

But within seconds he heard the quiet padding sound of running footsteps, closing on him fast. Closing on him - there was no-one else about.

Before he could collect himself and react both his arms were grabbed from behind, his hands pulled from his hoodie pockets, was physically dragged forwards as the couple took him from either side. Hauling him forwards, dragging him towards the canal's edge

They were going to throw him into the water. They wanted him to drown. A front tail he had not spotted. Oh, great.

"Keep out of other people's business, Mr Holmes!"

The voice was that of the girl from the bar earlier. He swore to himself. He should have been prepared, should have been more aware, should have known. Why had he not known?

Scrambling to brake his progress towards the water's edge, he managed to do so by finally - luckily - digging a heel in behind a slightly risen cobblestone and getting a purchase. And that one foot held, was enough to put a sudden stop to the inexorable progress.

The man and the girl either side of him, dragging him by the arms, jolted through their whole bodies as he stopped abruptly, throwing his weight hard backwards, and stopped them too, lurching them off balance and curving in towards him in reaction as he arrested their inexorable progress in dragging him towards the water's edge.

Bracing himself, roaring a shouted - "NO! Nonononono!" calculating the shock this gave opponents - the kihap martial arts cry - he locked out his torso and heaved his arms inwards from the shoulders to bring his fists and forearms together in a classic double straight arm block, which clattered his two attackers against each other in front of him, before he then jerked his arms violently downwards, leaning rapidly in and forwards to maximise momentum. As a result they had to let go of his arms or crack their own skulls together in reaction to the force of his action.

At this release Sherlock instantly straightened up, jumped back a yard like a cat, level and two footed. The anger that had been simmering in him for months found release, came suddenly to the boil and he was hotly, unusually, angry. And violent.

His eyes blazed as he turned to the young man, who was the first to recover himself. Who faced towards Sherlock and dropped into a martial arts stance, hands palm down and parallel at chest height, eyes narrow slits of concentration.

"Oh, please," Sherlock scoffed. "Is that the best you can do? Look like a cheap knock-off of a kung-fu movie?"

He lunged forward and was deep into the blond man's reach far too fast, closed into him with surprise against all normal fight tactics, moving too quickly for his opponent to shape a contact blow, Sherlock's surprise move slapping an open palm against the young man's ear to swipe him sideways and rock his balance; an Ottoman slap that looked simpler, less painful, less disorientating, than it actually was.

Followed through by catching the back of his neck, slamming him face down and straight into the ground, then pivoting on the ball of one foot, spinning out fast through the move and turning to face and meet the attack from the girl who leapt at him with a risky high kick going for the throat.

A dangerous move to execute, and fatal if it had connected. But Sherlock rocked sideways, fast away and outside the move, deflecting her foot with one sharply raised elbow then take her in the throat in return, in passing, with a one finger spear blow from the other hand as she passed him, her own move rendered harmless, and which crashed her to the floor, retching for breath.

Shuffling backwards to have both his opponents in front of him he debated whether to turn and run or stay and fight, but decided running gave him less chance against two opponents than staying and facing the pair, who were picking themselves up and coming forward again.

He was outnumbered by skilled fighters. There was no chance of anyone coming to his aid. And they now knew he was not as ineffectual as he had at first appeared; he had lost the advantage of surprise.

The girl had taken off her kitten heeled shoes; those sharp pointed little heels held in front of her in either hand like weapons.

"Give up," rasped the girl. "You don't stand a chance against us."

"Despite evidence to the contrary," Sherlock breathed.

He watched the pair divide and move apart, attempting to sandwich him so they could attack simultaneously from opposite sides and maximise damage, not allowing him to ride against their opposing forces but to have to react and absorb them both simultaneously. A classic and insurmountable problem when facing two opponents at once.

Dropping his centre of gravity into a fighting back stance, Sherlock breathed out slowly to calm himself and pushed his hands outwards into a Korean defence position..

"So when did you learn to fight, Mr Holmes?"

"Oh, you know," he tilted his head and smirked. "One picks up things on one's travels."

He felt cold. Nor fear, exactly, more a wind at his back that told him he was no longer the amateur dilettante detective who had blithely swooped to a pretend death from the roof of Barts. And this sharp little exchange was proof of that. Did he accept - like - or even hate - this new thing he had become? Or had that change been inevitable with maturity and experience?

But now was not the time to think of such things.

The young man shuffled forward again, arms and legs suddenly whirling into action and Sherlock responded with a series of high speed blocks and feints that created themselves without conscious thought as he one-stepped backwards in a series of classic karate defensive moves intent on self preservation and staying standing.

The girl was inching behind him now. He could feel her presence drifting back and sideways, but although he tried to keep her in his peripheral vision, he could neither see her properly nor concentrate on her as he followed through his defence against her companion.

But there she was suddenly, barefoot now, slashing at him with one cutting heel, raking his face with it, and he smelt blood on his cheekbone, saw it bloom in his peripheral vision. He had snapped his head back instinctively fast, yet not quite fast enough, the blood flaring upwards and interfering with his sight, slowing him.

The girl Maria was suddenly far too close and making a judo move against him with a low sweeping scything movement of one leg, hands flat on the ground, that took his feet from under him and put him down and winded onto the cobbles, flat on his back and helpless.

He hunched desperately forwards as he fell to try and save the back of his head from impact with the ground, and grunted with the effort. His sound made her laugh. And he could gladly have killed her, killed both of them, at that moment.

As the girl threw her arms down and out to break and absorb her own fall, she was picking herself up and whirling out of his range even as he lay there winded, trying to move. So the young man was at him again before he could recover, dropping like a stone onto his prone body, knees sinking into his chest, forcing air from his lungs and making him gag for breath, see silver stars, try to parry the grab for his throat by blind instinct alone.

There was no option but to curve his hands up and inside the killer grip and rip it open fast - with his arms as leverage - and he did so in near panic. For he recognised it was going to be impossible to tackle two such skilled opponents working in concert all on his own for much longer.

Now, as they grappled, the two men's faces were too close as they breathed each other's air and stared at each other, giving no quarter, faces blank with effort and something not far from each one's limits.

He had to finish this. He was at too much of a disadvantage here. And he still could not decide if they were there to warn him off or to kill him.

Sherlock breathed down, concentrating all his mental and physical force into his upper body, attempting the fiercely physical flickering shoulder spring; difficult even without an opponent kneeling on his chest.

Somehow the anger and the force he summoned into the totally unexpected and off strategy move took the young man by surprise, and he was thrown to one side, even though the shoulder spring had not been completed clean. Yet this still gave Sherlock enough of an advantage to twist up onto one knee and catch his opponent's hand as it reached for his throat again.

Bending the arm open from the body, locking the elbow joint back, twisting the hand palm upwards, Sherlock directed the arm down onto the point of his bent knee and drew his other elbow up and back, before swooping the point down into a hammer strike.

There was an audible crack like a gun shot as the bones in the forearm broke, and the young man screamed, jerking away in surprise and pain.

Scrabbling and spinning to his feet on the shining cobbles, Sherlock came upright, throwing the man away from him. As he did so, unbalanced in the desperation of the movement, he sensed the girl lunge towards him again, ram herself close and tight into his body and grasp him by the front of his hoodie.

He had an impression of wild blue eyes far too close to his, teeth gritted with effort and anger, white spots of tension on her cheekbones. And even as he reached for her hands to prise them off him, he jolted and felt her throw her weight backwards away from him, pulling him into her arc of movement.

She fell hard backwards onto the ground, dragging him with her, planting one foot then both into his stomach to bend, extend and then lift him into a freestyle tomo nage move, pushing upwards and spinning him over his own head and hers into an overhead throw. She was the fulcrum and he could no longer resist the momentum she was creating.

This, he thought fleetingly, was always what was going to happen. He could not tackle two hard and prepared fighters used to operating as a team and ever have expected to win. And the whole thing, his pathetic abilities, his vulnerability, had been overwhelmed and destroyed in less than a minute.

Unable to stop himself, he flew upwards and over her head and body. He missed hitting the ground, hitting the thick oak timbers that lined the edge of the harbour. He was spinning towards darkness, arms and legs flailing.

He was going through the air at speed, now heading straight down twenty feet into the dark waters of the canal. He was going to be knocked out by the impact. He was going to drown. And no-one would see, or care, or come to his aid.

Just another drunk who stumbled over the edge into the water. Just another statistic. That was what they would say when they pulled his lifeless body from the water. He shouted wildly for the three seconds he was in the air in case - just in case - someone else was around to notice,

Just in case the two attackers were not then going to run to the edge, pull out a pistol and simply finish him off in the water. Like shooting a rat in a barrel. It was likely. It was what he would do in the same situation.

His last thought before he hit the water was that he deserved this, deserved all of it. Humiliation, failure, damage. Death. Magnussen had won. Lady Smallwood would be devastated. And Mycroft would not be best pleased, either…

TO BE CONTINUED…..

.


	11. Chapter 11

Things We Lost In The Flames

This story is being updated every weekend. It will extend to around thirty chapters and from Chapter Nineteen picks up from the start of the final episode of Series Three, _His Last Vow_. Although there will of course be the vital element of following and reflecting the on screen plot, much will be told in an alternative form through lost scenes and Sherlock PoV. Now read on…

Chapter 11: "All that we have amassed…."

The water was so cold it took his breath away, and the hard impact robbed him of consciousness for a moment. The speed and force of the fall drove him down into the depths of the canal, and he had to flail, and to push hard, to get back to the surface, fighting his lungs' desire to breathe in anything, even water.

He gathered himself as he burst back to the surface, gulping in air, arms out with a determination to stay there, treading water, swirling the bone chilling wetness out of his hair and eyes so he could at least see. He could smell and feel the heat of blood on his face where the stiletto heel had slashed him.

Apart from the slight sound of departing footsteps - _they're leaving me here in the water, the bastards; do they think- hope - I'm dead? Should have broken more than an arm -_ the silence closed around him with something like finality.

The sheer concrete and steel sides of the artificial walls of the canal gave an illusion of solitude and immense darkness in the middle of the city, and he looked round wildly for a break in that wall, of steps or even a slipway that would let him haul himself out of the water and to safety. He began to softly breast stroke to the side.

"Here!" a voice hissed out of the darkness, sharp and low. He stopped swimming immediately to listen; someone had spotted him? Who? Where? And would it be safe to respond?

"Here! Holmes! This way!"

Someone knew who he was. Perfect English, Danish accent….he looked round, treading water. There was a single flash from a small torch to show him the way, and he eased towards it.

A man was hanging from one arm, braced on a service ladder, reaching out a hand to him.

"Here! Quickly!"

He pushed towards the hand, which caught his wrist and hauled.

He was dragged up the steel ladder, hand over hand and a little too quickly, in intense silence, and was pulled over the cill onto the pavement like a fish being landed, slithering as if boneless, as if unconscious, up and onto the ground, water sluicing out of his clothes.

Sherlock arched up to his hands and knees as a coat was thrown about his shoulders.

"Don't get cold. You don't want hypothermia. Your face is bleeding. Are you hurt?"

"Not much," he managed. "Thank you."

"Ah….English manners, "said the voice, with a smile in it. Arms came down, lifted him up and then brought him close enough to lift bodily, and he surged up and forward, banging chests with his rescuer: a shorter, older, bulky yet handsome man with treacle brown eyes and a lined face. The other man's hands went automatically under his shoulder blades, holding up and supporting him; there was a moment of breathlessness, then the other man rasped a hard breath and grasped his shoulders tight with splayed fingers for an instant.

"Have you been shot?"

"No….why?"

"No matter just now. In the car; we must get you warm and dry. Pneumonia is not a complication you need."

The elderly dark blue Saab that drew up alongside them was driven by a young man with short blond hair and a scowl.

"This is Matti, my driver," was the brief introduction as Sherlock was bundled unceremoniously into the rear seat. The two men now in the front turned and looked back at him.

"What are you doing? Let me out, please. I'm fine."

"We will make sure. Because you are wet through and you are bleeding. It's OK; you can trust us, Mr Holmes, we are not the enemy. Just a short trip."

The car delivered Sherlock and his rescuer to an old townhouse less than a mile away, and he was bundled inside at speed.

"My city pied a terre; you are safe now."

The front door slammed shut, lights inside the house snapped on, and Sherlock and his rescuer stood and looked at each other as Sherlock dripped water onto the stone floor of the hallway..

"You are Piet Bruhl," Sherlock stated. "And you were the listener in the other room."

"And you are Sherlock Holmes," said Piet Bruhl, nodding an introduction..

The two men stood and assessed each other for a moment, then Sherlock held out a damp hand and Bruhl shook it.

"Thank you, Colonel Bruhl. Why were you following me?"

"Making sure - trying to make sure - you were safe, you were alone, and reached the safety of your accommodation. My instinct shouted at me when you left Ari's house and yet I still failed you. That bit of action was too swift for me to intercede. I am sorry." He paused, then seemed to add despite himself: "I did not expect you to be a fighter. I had been told you were an amateur."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Clearly I am an amateur, as I failed; so we both failed. I should have seen the danger. But I had not expected any. No-one should have known I was here in Copenhagen."

"Hmn."

Piet Bruhl reached into the bathroom, brought out a grey robe and held it out.

"Go shower. Give me your clothes so I can dry them. We will talk, and then when your clothes are dry again you can leave. Continue as planned."

Sherlock responded with a bleak nod. Within ten minutes he was out of the bathroom, showered, warm again, wrapped in the robe.

"What do you need now?"

Piet Bruhl rose from an armchair as Sherlock reappeared.

"Superglue."

The older man opened a drawer in an antique walnut desk and offered without question an almost new tube. Sherlock took it, turned to the gilt mirror over the fireplace, pinched the cut edges of his face together and applied the glue.

"Quicker and easier than first aid," he said, and the other man nodded. "The heels on ladies' shoes are lethal."

Piet Bruhl spoke: "Has something else happened to you recently? "

"You asked earlier if I had been shot. Why?"

The answer was more indirect than Sherlock had expected.

"Turn round and take off the robe, please. Let me see your back."

Sherlock did not move, but narrowed his eyes, assessing.

" Mr Holmes. When I brought you out of the water I thought I felt something….under your skin. I want to make sure."

Sherlock nodded, turned, let the robe drop to the floor. Stood in the middle of the room, open to scrutiny, and waited. There was the impression of a boot mark on his ribs, a bruise on his chest where the girl's feet had planted to fire him into the air in an overhead throw, grazes on his hands and arms. It could have been worse.

When Bruhl touched his shoulders he could not repress a shudder of reaction.

"I am not going to hurt you, Mr Holmes. You carry momentoes from tonight; but you got off lightly, fighting two people. The other man ended up with a broken arm."

"I should have broken his neck." He heard the vitriol shake into his words and was astonished at his unexpected passion.

"Quite so. You have a killer instinct I had not expected. Your other injuries are…quite recent?"

"Yes. Healed now. They don't worry me."

"Impressive, nevertheless. But you don't have to act strong for me." Bruhl's hand moved, pressed hard around the left shoulder blade. Probed under the bone. "Feel that?"

"Yes. Feels like a pellet, like grapeshot."

"Ever been hit with grapeshot?"

Never."

Hmn."

Bruhl found a spot, pressed and manipulated.

"There. Feel it there? I can actually see it under the skin when I press."

"A tracking device." Sherlock finally deduced what it was Bruhl saw, and his voice was determinedly bland, sitting hard on his reaction as he identified the foreign object in his body, sounding almost bored. Masking the sudden deep anger and sense of violation that hit him so unexpectedly.

"You wondered how anyone knew you were in Copenhagen - and exactly where. You said so. Now you know."

"I also wondered how someone knew I was at two particular houses last evening. Now I know that too."

Bruhl came round to face him.

"Magnussen." he said with quiet certainty. Sherlock did not even need to do as much as nod. A moment's thought, then: "How?"

"I …made a calculated error. Stepped out of the shadows. He…pounced."

"How?"

"I was attacked and drugged by a lackey; a strike at speed. After that…." he hesitated, shook his head, looked away from Bruhl's intent and intelligent gaze. "…I lost twelve hours. Turned up dumped on the doorstep of a Magnussen employee. Tested full of GHD and ketamine. Enough of either to kill me.""

"For why?"

"Humiliation. Knowledge. Opportunity. Inspection _._ Power. Rape. You choose."

"Do you remember anything from those twelve hours?"

"Not…..clearly." The two words were a huge admission. And they both recognised that.

"So you now have your own very personal reasons for bringing Magnussen down." Bruhl nodded, assessing.

"No. My own situation is irrelevant and cannot influence me, or the detachment of the decision making process. You know that. This is all about a more urgent chain of blackmail that ends with you."

"Me?"

Of course, you. Your military defensive power across Europe and probably beyond. Your sexual identity. Your lover. Your affection for his younger brother and his wife. I understand the pressures upon you. You are the man at the top of the pile and you are the kingpin."

"Hmn. I need to think." Bruhl bent down, lifted the robe, put it absentmindedly back around Sherlock's shoulders.

"No," Sherlock commanded, stepping away from the robe being held out to him. "The tracking device first."

Naked and unselfconscious, he stepped into the kitchen, found the smallest and sharpest knife in the wooden chef's block and held it out to Piet Bruhl. He had a salt cellar in the other hand.

"Need your help," he said.

Bruhl shook his head, eyes widening. "I can't do that. I don't have benzocaine or linocaine in the house for a local anaesthetic. I can't just cut you…."

"Yes you can. If you deal with it quickly. I need you to. I can't reach to do it myself. And I can hardly go to a hospital, now can I?"

"A paring knife, a pinch of salt and superglue. Seriously?"

"Yes. Quickly. Before I change my mind." Sighed and turned his back again. Grasped the back rail of the chair nearest to him. Emptied his mind. Braced himself, leaning slightly forward, eyes downcast and concentrating on a space somewhere on the floor. "Just do it. Please. I am too much at risk with this thing in place…"

The incision came quickly - fast, hard, and without hesitation. Even prepared and away, deep in his Mind Palace, the pain rocked him, the hot feel of the knife tip probing, guided steady by Bruhl's other hand pressing hard into his chest to hold his torso firm, was of exquisite burn.

He closed his eyes, isolated the pain, drew it into a small room in the heart of the Mind Palace and locked it there, felt the small steel foreign body move inside his flesh, then be plucked out. Felt the blood flow. Smelt it. Blocked out the pain to concentrate on just staying standing.

Bruhl swabbed the cut he had made with kitchen roll, loaded salt into the wound. Scraped the now pink granulated salt out, and put superglue into the cut just as he had seen Sherlock Holmes do it, squeezing the tube hard, pinching and holding the edges of skin together until the superglue took hold.

"You should have stitches in this."

He waited a moment for reply and got none. Turned and leant forward, looked into Sherlock's face, and registered with mild surprise that Sherlock did not see him. Bruhl shook his head. Draped the robe back round Sherlock's shoulders and guided him down into a chair. Sherlock had not cried out or reacted in any way under Piet Bruhl's hands, but his eyes were closed, he was sweating and looked ready to pass out.

"Focus," snapped Bruhl harshly, and delicately held out the tiny silver cylinder in bloody fingers. Sherlock's eyes jolted open, and he took it. Hummed appreciatively, smiled weakly, and let his hand fall with it curled into his palm.

"Thank you, Colonel Bruhl. I will dispose of this usefully," he promised, but his arm dropped slackly towards the floor, and his eyes flickered closed.

"You want me to destroy it?"

"Oh no," a weak smile flashed and was gone. "It still has a purpose to serve."

The elite soldier looked long at him without comment, then left the room and soon returned with a glass of water and two white tablets.

"Painkillers," he said, watched Sherlock take the pills, then the water, and swallow them.

Piet Bruhl returned to the kitchen, and in a few moments Sherlock did not notice passing, returned with a mug of hot milk. "With honey, brandy, cinnamon. The best pick-me-up in the world. Drink."

Sherlock was beyond arguing, and Bruhl knew it, guiding the mug to his mouth and waiting until reaction made him sip and swallow. Wrapped Sherlock's hand around the mug until Sherlock held it for himself.

"Thank you. I don't normally need looking after."

"I know." Bruhl intoned. "But circumstances dictate. You are …unusual. It has been a privilege to see you in action, Mr Holmes. You are not Magnussen's normal type of adversary. He will be piqued by the challenge."

"But he will not want me dead. There is no power for him in that. Not yet, anyway. I need to make the most of that delay."

"There are ways to destroy a man other than killing him."

"You mean me? No. No-one expects normal behaviour from me. I have no pressure points in Magnussen's terms, so he cannot destroy me; there is nothing of me to destroy. And I know what being dead feels like. So I do not fear him turning on me." Sherlock quirked a smile, and Bruhl saw it. "In fact I probably require it."

"Do not let that make you overconfident. If he cannot touch you, he will target those people who have meaning for you instead. He is good at leverage..

"I am aware."

"But are you? Really? Has it crossed your mind that you may not be the real target? That he is pursuing you as a way to your brother?"

"My first assumption, always. I will never let him close in on my brother. I tell only you this fact - I will die before I allow that." Sherlock shafted a look up at Bruhl over the rim of the mug, and the other man saw the implacable determination there.

"Magnussen never makes a direct approach. Therefore it now seems he has been closing in on me for some time. Me on the way to Mycroft. Lady Smallwood's little problem has merely escalated his time frame. May even be a feint to draw me closer in.

"I suspect he may also be targeting others in my circle of influence" Bruhl registered the unusual phrase Sherlock used instead of a more simple 'friends' - did the man not recognise such a condition regarding himself? - "as well as affecting Lord and Lady Smallwood. He is getting too close to the heart of British government as well as too close to me. Too close to you, too."

"What do you intend to do?"

"At this stage my decision is not yet made. Partly dependant upon you and what you decide to do on behalf of your lover, your family and their actions relatively. Many people are influenced by this ripple effect. You already know what I may need to do ultimately."

"Eliminate."

"Yes. It may be the only way to keep people, countries, Europe's entire defence systems, safe from his harm.. The man is amoral. He thinks he is the most powerful man in England. In Europe, even. Either him or my brother - in his eyes. He may well be right, for all I know.

"Which is why - whatever else he does on the way to it - he is circling around Mycroft Holmes to strike and kill. Literally? Figuratively? Whichever hardly matters, the end result will be the same.

"He is not doing this out of a misguided belief system, or megalomania, or some need for revenge. He does it simply because he can; because he is addicted to his power over others. Of knowing more than anyone else - about anything else - and being able to use it to change the world. For the worse, normally. Because he gets his kicks by dominating others and spreading fear. He may not be technically insane, but the remorseless effect is the same."

"I agree. The cost may be high, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock shrugged, impassive.

"If I do not act the cost will be higher."

"My assessment also. You seem unmoved by the equation."

"Of course. The UK, the European alliance and it's defence strategies….important proactive and influential individuals intent on good such as yourself, your lover's brother, my brother, Lady Smallwood. All are his victims. Measured against myself? No contest. I do what I have to do. Consequences to myself are immaterial."

Piet Bruhl looked Sherlock Holmes in the eye. Neither man blinked. Finally Piet Bruhl spoke, his tone deep; measured, premeditated words.

"I know your brother. I always thought him unparalleled as a thinking machine. Either you are at least his equal or a better poker player."

"Never play poker against my brother. Or even Snap, for that matter. Take the word of the little brother who always lost."

"You don't intend to lose this time."

"No. But my route to victory may seem…different to what you expect."

"I'll remember that," Bruhl risked an assessing look. For an injured man wearing only a bathrobe and blond hair dye Sherlock Holmes seemed remarkably self possessed and self contained. "Are you always like this? Or acting your role for my benefit?"

"I don't know what you mean."

The unusual opal eyes looking at Piet Bruhl were calm and untroubled. Not transparent, far from transparent, but without subterfuge or guile at this moment. Just a small frown causing a wrinkle on the bridge of the nose. No lies, just a vague puzzlement at being assessed by someone who did not understand that his own normality was not the same as other people's.

"No. I don't think you do." Piet Bruhl allowed himself a slow and appreciative smile that was as honest as it was rare. "I appreciate your detachment and your honesty." He let the silence between them stretch.

"People frequently tell me I am a machine," Sherlock admitted with an ironic smile.. "Not in an appreciative way. Obviously. A freak, some call me. I prefer high functioning sociopath."

Into the silence this created in the room the tumble drier clicked off. Piet Bruhl rose from his chair.

"Your clothes are cooked. A moment."

He returned with a bundle of familiar garments. Sherlock stood and without ceremony took off and folded the robe and slowly got into the clothes, dry now, wrinkled and still warm. Piet Bruhl watched him impassively.

"I look more into my disguise like this," Sherlock commented. Straightening the hoodie, he slanted a look up at Bruhl. "What are you going to do now?"

"I need to talk to Fredrik."

"Let me know what he says. What you decide between you. Please also explain to me why, in the most sexually liberal country in the world, where same sex marriage was pioneered, where even in the military the lack of minority discrimination is exemplary, why you have allowed yourselves to be open to intimidation for so long by being secretive about your relationship?"

"You really don't understand, do you? " Piet Bruhl sat back down and attempted to explain the unexplainable.

"Living and functioning in a liberal country does not make everyone liberal. And a law does not reinvent a mindset. My parents would have died of shame to find their son was homosexual. Even with my exemplary record as a soldier and a servant of our country.

"Fredrik's parents are proud of Ari and they love him. Ari is handsome, heterosexual, a compassionate and caring member of Parliament who has a wonderful and brilliant wife who wants to heal the world. Fredrik's parents love Fredrik. He is a compassionate and caring mover and shaper, a man of achievement, yet he has no wife. Only me."

"You underrate yourself."

"If Fredrik's parents - or mine - had known we have each other we would not have had any parents. Being of a liberal country does not mean liberality is also personal. Everyone has blind spots, intolerances. That is life.

"Over twenty years we have kept ourselves secret, private. Fredrik and I. For our careers, our discretion, for ourselves; but mainly for our parents. A sacrifice we made for each other and a fear of exposure we learnt to live with. We love each other, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock tilted his head, but did not speak.

"Do you not understand love, Mr Holmes?"

"Emotion is alien to me." The words were totally without inflexion.

"If that is your nature I feel sorry for you. If it is your choice then I pity you."

"Thank you."

Piet Bruhl looked at him sharply, but saw no humour or irony in the words. He shivered. There was something in the soul of Sherlock Holmes that disturbed him. The fact that most of that disturbance was admiration had more to do with Piet Bruhl's profession than his heart. Although something now touched his heart he had never expected. Pity, perhaps?. Or empathy. Respect? Even a sort of envy for a man with an empty heart?

"What do you intend to do now?"

"First I must speak to Fredrik. Much depends on what we dare do, what we can do, can achieve. Together or alone. In private or in public. We need to think. To seek counsel. Consider how brave we can be, or need to be. Do you understand? "

"Yes. Will Fredrik?"

"That is what we must discuss. What we put first. Our country or ourselves."

"I wish you well."

"You don't understand the dilemma, do you?"

Sherlock Holmes looked away from Piet Bruhl's intense gaze. It was easiest to do that. To make silent denial and look away.

"Yes. Love is messy. It is the devil. So I am told. And it confuses your motivation." He paused. "If you were not lovers…just friends…would that make any difference?"

"If we were only friends there would be no dilemma, would there? However; in the modern climate close friends of different or the same sex are too often assumed to be lovers, regardless. You know?"

Sherlock Holmes was hit with the sudden rush of an identification with what the other man was saying. Bruhl could not know about his friendship with John Watson. Of course he couldn't! What it was, what it had been. What it was no longer - except to him. How would he react facing the same dilemma? So many people had always made that assumption, that he and John Watson were lovers, however much they denied it or ignored it.

Love was too simplistic a categorisation. And these days he would be hard pressed to still describe Watson as a friend at all. Despite the wedding, the best man's role, the naked respect and affection he had expressed at the wedding - just days ago. The vow he had made to John and Mary and their baby. He must have been mad. How swiftly things could - must - change.

' _My first and last vow…whatever it takes. Whatever happens from now on, I swear I will always be there, always…_

' _I never expected to be anyone's best friend…..certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune to have known….._

' _the warmth and constancy of your friendship….I will never let you down, and have a lifetime to prove that…._

' _I will never let you down….never…..'_

Would he still stand up, step forward and save John Watson's life? Put Watson's life above his own? Of course he would; even if he never set eyes on the man again. He had a debt. He owed John Watson his life, a life Watson had saved so many times, in so many ways. Distance and dislocation were irrelevant. He would kill and sacrifice for John Watson. He had always been prepared to do that.

Saving the man from a bomb jacket, from a maniac like Moriarty. From a bomb in a tube train, from beneath a bonfire. Bonfire. That damned and bloody bonfire again….

"Mr Holmes? Are you all right?"

Sherlock felt himself drifting. Blinked hard to see Bruhl's brown eyes intent upon him.

"I am so sorry. It has been a long day."

Bruhl put a hand on his shoulder.

"My driver will take you to your hotel. He will guard your door tonight. And he will drive you to the airport in the morning. Yes?"

"No need, really."

"Indeed there is. You were nearly killed tonight, by professional attackers who have been following you. You nearly killed someone yourself, and you did not hesitate to do so.

"You are helping people I love and you are helping me. I want to thank you, and I also want to keep you alive. Do we understand each other, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock finally nodded, acquiesced. Too tired and drained to do anything else. The incision in his back was still paining him, despite the pills. But he preferred Piet Bruhl did not know this.

"Good! That is good!"" Piet Bruhl relaxed somewhere deep inside himself. Hesitated, but still asked:

"And what do you do next?"

"Return to my real life. I feel as if I have spent the last day in a bubble, an unreal bubble. But I go back. To my own world and to Magnussen. We have a meeting….." he closed his eyes at the thought, and Bruhl watched him teeter a little.

"Take care of yourself, Mr Holmes. And watch your back. In more ways than one."

Sherlock nodded and opened his hand. The tiny silver cylinder remained nestled there.

"You need something more, Mr Holmes?"

"A dab of superglue?" he asked, smiling. And Piet Bruhl handed it to him and simply laughed, saying: "Please keep the tube. Your need is greater than mine."

Matti, the dour young driver, came to the door to collect him.

Piet Bruhl stood in front of him and offered his hand. Sherlock shook it. A silent gesture of thanks and appreciation Bruhl understood.

"Look after yourself, Sherlock. And do not hesitate to ask my help. Stay in touch. I will tell you what we decide."

"Thank you, Piet. For the …." he hesitated, quirked a smile. "attention to detail."

He moved to the window and looked down onto the silent and deserted street.

"Where is your car?"

"Parked about ten cars down, to your right," Piet Bruhl joined him at the window, and their arms brushed as they stood together.

"Can you tell me about the other cars?"

"All neighbours. The Fiat belongs to Jiri next door - shopping trolley. The Volkswagen next to it is the car of all work for the Ehrlich family. The white Volvo is rarely here; Sven works for the EU in Brussels, so he will be off back there tomorrow, the…."

"That will do."

Sherlock Holmes applied superglue to the tiny cylinder, puts the tube carefully in his hoodie pocket, hand curled protectively around it. With the other hand withdrew a badly crumpled paper handkerchief that had survived it's trip through the tumble drier.

"I have a terrible cold," he commented inconsequentially, and stifled a sneeze. Piet Brul looked at him, not comprehending.

He left Piet Bruhl with a nod, but no goodbye.

Bruhl remained at the window, watched his driver escort Sherlock Holmes into the street, check for suspicious bystanders, lead him to the elderly Saab. The check was professional; it looked like two men simply leaving a house together, looking round to remember where they left their car.

He heard Sherlock sneeze again - twice - and put the tissue to his nose. Sneezed again. Dropped the tissue accidentally, walk on then have second thoughts, step back to pick up his litter like a conscientious citizen.

As he bent and put one hand out for the tissue, Piet Bruhl saw the other hand dip and lift, attach something to the underside of the wheel arch nearest to him on the Volvo. The movement of one hand mask the movement of the other.

The GPS tracker.

Piet Bruhl stepped back from the window and grinned to himself. He is an expert in covert operations. He had been watching closely - yet still he almost missed it.

The tiny cylinder someone still thought was embedded inside Sherlock Holmes would soon be heading for Brussels. And that someone would think Sherlock Holmes was heading there next; instead of returning to London.

For the first time that day Piet Bruhl felt his spirit lift, hope dare to enter his heart. He closed the curtains and crossed to his desk.

TO BE CONTINUED….

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	12. Things WE Lost In The Flames 12

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 12: "One Day When Loneliness Came…"

He shut and locked the door behind him, rattled the safety chain into place. The room was Spartan, anonymous, bland. It suited his mood.

He moved to the window and looked out. The Saab sat parked on the street just below, the silhouette of the impassive driver settled there until morning. He did not need the protection or the support, but understood why Bruhl wanted to provide it.

Moving to the bed he sat on the edge. Slumped. Every part of the transport ached or hurt. Fighting, swimming, improvised surgery. Ridiculous. He hissed out a long breath, struggled out of the hoodie and fell awkwardly onto his side, head on the pillow. For all of fifteen seconds.

Groaned in disgust at the concept of giving way to the demands of the transport by relaxing or sleeping, and reached into his backpack for his phone, switching it on.

Texts flew in immediately.

 **4.05pm: Need to talk. Kitty**

DELETE

 _And so it begins._

REPLY

 **Back tomorrow am. Will text then. SH**

 **6pm: OK! See you there, honey bunch! Janine** **x**

DELETE

 _Oh God help me._

REPLY

 **And order wine X SH**

 **7.31pm: Texted 27 times and still no reply. Getting worried now. Sulking or dead? JW**

He looked at this, immobile, for a long time. Too many thoughts zipped through his mind, and he was too tired. Too battered.

 _Please God, make this stop._

He watched his thumbs work the keyboard as if someone else was doing it.

 **Not dead. SH**

He pressed send, scowled, and watched the screen clear. He had promised himself he wasn't going to respond to John Watson and now he had done that very thing. He resisted the temptation to register the pull of emotions he was determined not to define, and of the deep disappointment within himself about himself. Well, that was nothing new. File it and move on.

Finally, after suspended moments of child-like indecision within himself he loathed , he called up the last message in the inbox again. Deliberately clicked on REPLY again and wrote:

 **If latter event occurs MH instructed to inform you asap. Also body for your inspection to confirm death this time, if available. SH**

Looked at what he had written for a long time, coldly and quietly angry. Felt he should write more, but could not think what without sounding maudlin or bitter, or both. And he did not want to give John Watson another lever to use against him.

 _ **And I hope that bloody shuts you up!**_ Or _ **Now get off my back!**_ Or _**Satisfied?**_

Or…he shuddered to a stop and tried to power down his brain.

Swore under his breath and clicked SEND again. Perhaps that would finally stop the texts coming.

He swallowed more painkillers and tried to sleep a little, leaning against the headboard. Could not lie down, back hurt, ribs ached. Exhausted but the adrenalin did not want to leave his system. The brain would not only not turn off, but refused to compute as well. Just running circles and circles in an exhausting and useless loop.

In the early morning Piet Bruhl's driver delivered him to the airport and he caught the breakfast flight back to London. A taxi took him home to Baker Street and he was so tired he did not know how or where to move his feet to cross the pavement.

Fell through the door and clambered up the seventeen stairs that felt like an obstacle course. Staggered over to the leather sofa, fell onto his side and drew the woollen blanket that had been folded across the arm up over himself and just let go.

The sudden sense of warmth and peace was startling. He huddled down and allowed himself a single groan, and did not even realise he was falling asleep.

o0o0o0o

Tap on, kettle lid opening, rattle of mugs and a spoon. Someone had let themselves into the flat and was making tea. Hardly a burglar, then. He opened his eyes and peered into the kitchen.

Square shoulders under tweed jacket, silver short cropped hair. The rear view of Lestrade, who must have let himself in so quietly Sherlock had been totally unaware.

The kettle switched off.

"This is not a tea bar. The café is next door."

"And good afternoon to you, too."

Lestrade half turned, offered a nod and a grin.

Made tea and brought it through. Sat down on the coffee table where he also placed two steaming mugs and plonked down a packet of ginger thins biscuits from his pocket.

"You eaten today?"

He opened the packet with his teeth, prised out a handful which he placed without comment by Sherlock's mug, then took a handful for himself.

"I can never get used to you blond and with your hair like that. Bit scary." He hesitated. "You OK? What you done to your face? You look like death warmed up."

"Always wake badly. You know."

Lestrade nodded. Yes, he knew Sherlock always woke badly. Years of hospital emergencies, bedside vigils, drug come downs, help through illness, damage, self destruction. He knew.

Sherlock struggled to sit up and Lestrade watched that struggle in barely restrained silence with tight lips.

"Been a bit busy, have you?"

"What are you doing here? Has my brother sent you?" Three hours sleep. Not enough.

"I'm not your brother's lackey. You do know that."

"He has plenty of lackeys, an ever changing cast. I have to check."

Lestrade let that go and peaceably drank his tea. After a few moments silence, waiting for Sherlock to pick up his own mug and drink, he decided to try conversation as none was forthcoming.

"Heard from John and Mary?"

"Get used to the idea that what I said before still applies. Not really in the picture any more."

Lestrade refrained from mentioning being best man and top table hugs and naked emotions and vows of love and care.

"How does that work, then?"

"He texts. I ignore him."

"Well, that's a pretty straightforward policy. Does John know about it?"

"He'll get there. He's not really as stupid as currently appearing. Too much sex addling his brain, I assume."

"Oh, you know about that, do you?"

Lestrade curbed a smile in reply to a sharp look from the younger man. Realised they have eaten all the biscuits.

"Are you OK?"

"Fine. What are you doing here?"

"Nothing that can't wait."

It shows how outside himself Sherlock Holmes was because he did not question this remark, or ask for more details.

They both stood, turned towards the door.

Lestrade grinned encouragement and Sherlock responded with a nod and a small tight lipped smile of his own. Almost reassured, Lestrade unconsciously slapped Sherlock on the back, a casual friendly man-to-man farewell gesture typical of him.

He was unprepared for the instant wail of pain and recoil this caused. Automatically stepped slightly back and to the side, put his arms out to catch Sherlock, who stumbled and almost fell.

Suddenly they were face to face and too close so Lestrade could not avoid seeing, nor Sherlock conceal, the way the colour flooded from his face, the sweat that rose, the tears that sprung into the shocked grey eyes.

The consulting detective braced his hands against Lestrade's firm arm and jolted backwards. Blinked, and unexpected tears overflowed onto his cheeks. He dashed them away.

"Sorry," he breathed.

"What have you done this time?" Lestrade's voice was hard with fear and surprise.

"Oh. Nothing. I….fell over. You just caught the place. Bit tender." The words were casual, but his eyes slid away from Lestrade's gaze.

"How does someone as agile as you fall onto your back and hurt it?"

"How indeed?" He looked into the jaundiced expression on Lestrade's face. "Walked into a door. These things happen, Lestrade. You know that."

"Hmn. I know you look as if you have been in a scrap. Does John know you are hurt? Does your brother?"

"It is nothing to do with either of them. So you have no compunction to report back to either. Leave it, Greg. I just need to sleep."

The use of his name gave Lestrade a bottom line and a warning. The two looked wordlessly at other for a long moment. Lestrade eventually shrugged.

"Your call," Lestrade said finally. Against all his instincts. Then: "Shout if you need anything."

"Always." One emotionless word, but Lestrade knew he meant it.

"You need John," he blurted out despite himself.

"I really don't," was the tired sounding reply. "I had a life before John, and will have a life after John." He paused, and there was a bitter edge that he did not completely conquer. "I do not need a carer, a minder or a nursemaid. I do not need a paid companion or a little helpmeet. Despite what my brother will tell you, I am an adult and I am fine on my own."

"You're trying to convince the wrong person," Lestrade replied calmly. Took the biscuit wrapper and the cups into the kitchen, and without ceremony or words of farewell simply left.

Sherlock sighed, sat back down, and picked up his telephone.

 **3.14pm: Now available. Meeting? SH**

The reply came back almost instantly.

 **3.15pm: Can come over to you now? Kitty**

 **3.16pm: Yes SH**

So he waited.

Another text arrived.

 **4.02pm: That supposed to be reassuring? JW**

DELETE

No reply.

Katherine Haig arrived at Baker Street within the hour. By then Sherlock had showered, washed out the blond hair dye, retreated behind the armour of his usual formal attire; charcoal handmade Spencer Hart suit, dove grey Dolce Gabbana shirt.

She exploded into the flat, stuttered to a halt in front of him and the first thing she said was:

"What have you done to your face?"

"Walked into a door," he evaded tersely. "What have you got for me?"

She dropped into his chair uninvited, and he sat down opposite her, in the chair he still thought of as John Watson's. She looked him over slowly. Tiredness hung over him like fog, she could tell, and yet the eyes were exceptionally bright and the concentration piercing.

"I tapped all my contacts. All had the same story. Every national newspaper, every news agency, every media outlet, was emailed the photos at 7am with the copy, more or less as it appeared in all the red tops.

"No-one has been able to trace where the email came from; it seems to have lost itself through a series of servers around the world. Someone who knew what they were doing."

"Predictable."

"Except for the fact that the only paper that did not get the news photos was _The Daily Briefing._ Now - why might that be?"

"Certainly not an oversight. Perhaps to avoid the news desk using the news item when there was going to be such a charming feature about me in the paper that very same day. Avoiding mixed messages, hmn? Establishing a compact of trust with me? Pretending they did not use it so to gain my confidence that _The Daily Briefing_ is an honourable paper with a moral conscience? And preferred to use the sympathetic feature instead of the nasty expose?"

"A bit obvious, surely?"

"Is it? For a confident super ego? No, that's the way the world works. Who would expect me to even see it? Or expect me to bother tracking the story, or to ask someone - like you - to find the source?"

"Do you mean Magnussen did this?"

"Can't guarantee, but who else would want to target me? You never asked me about the who, only the what and the why, but….who else do you think would have had me abducted? Drugged? Used for some purpose of his own?"

He had not told her where he was abducted and drugged; or who by. And she had not asked. He did not intend to tell her anything about that unless he really had to.

"What purpose?"

He saw his own horror suddenly reflected in Kitty's face.

"I - don't - know." Hesitant.

"Does that worry you?"

"No." He omitted to add: _"It frightens me. I do not know what he did to me."_ A flat, emotionless horror he tried to keep at bay.

He was also reluctant to tell her about the tracking device. His muddled memories that might involve rape. What would be the point? Would she even believe him? Or then be too scared of Magnussen to be able to pretend she did not know? Be able to fool her employer that she was no longer as young and idealistic and ignorant as she had always appeared? Sherlock thought not.

The best way to protect her from Magnussen, from herself, from he himself, was ignorance. Enough knowledge to make her careful; not enough knowledge to give herself away. Just as blind ignorance had been the best way of protecting John Watson at the time of the Fall.

"But Sherlock, I don't understand. Why would Magnussen target you, of all people?"

"Oh, Kitty…" he drawled in disbelief, shaking his head at her innocence. "The man is an ego maniac."

"But….he didn't bludgeon you to get your story…"

"No. He got you to do it for him instead. Using your past where it coincided with mine. The fact you would want to make amends with a proper interview - the default position of all journalists: 'let me write something better to make it better.' Yes? Why else do you think he employed you? You carry that history with you. That was why your husband feared for you."

She rose from the chair to put it's bulk between them

"You can't know that! How do you know that? No-one else…."

She stuttered to a stop, hands in front of her mouth, trying not to cry.

He could not tell her about Nick Haig's hidden 3113 file. How much he had feared for his young wife - when he should have feared for himself. Could not reveal that yet. Perhaps never. So he made the simplest explanation of all.

"I am Sherlock Holmes. I know things you cannot conceive of."

It seemed a ridiculous and arrogant conversation stopper. But it worked.

She gulped and looked blindly at him.

"Kitty…." his voice was softer now, persuasive. "There are a lot of people who do not trust your boss, and who fear him. Lots of journalists who refuse to work for him. Do you know anyone like that? Anyone other than Nick who tried to talk you out of going to work for him?"

She looked at him for long moments, reflecting on what he had said, thinking about all that has happened to her, to her husband. She did not query his words, chase down detail or make the connection. Instead she took a deep breath.

"Dale," she said finally. "Dale Pike. He used to work with Nick. He went on and on at me about not going to work for Magnussen. He did it so much I ended up going to work for him just to prove Dale - and Nick - wrong." She paused and looked up at Sherlock with such an open and trusting appeal he had to swallow reaction. "I was an idiot, wasn't I?"

Sherlock smiled at her gently. "Not an idiot, no. Young and idealistic certainly. Blind to advice from elders and betters most definitely. But what's done is done. Don't beat yourself over the head with what you cannot change."

"I don't understand why you are so chilled, so understanding, about me."

"You think I am perfect? You think _I_ think I am perfect? No. It is your mistakes that define and develop you. How you react when things go wrong. You spend a lifetime learning that."

She nodded.

He does not tell her that if she had behaved like the cynical old journalist she had always pretended to be, she would be safe and happy, and her husband still alive. But then he would have no angle on Magnussen; no way in, no help or information. No inside knowledge and no Janine.

"What do I do, Sherlock? How do I get out of this?"

"You look for another job and move on. But look quietly; don't let Magnussen know. At this juncture he will blame me for it, and that could be dangerous for us both."

Even as he said it, he realised she thought that was a figure of speech, not the harsh truth of the matter.

"Yes. Yes I see." she frowned and he could see her thinking. "I think you need to speak to Dale. Do you want to speak to Dale?"

"Why not?" he tried to appear casual and relaxed, not ready to leap onto this new lead. Watched her take her mobile from her bag, pull up a number and call. Listened to one side of the conversation,

"Hi, Dale, it's Kitty. Yes, I know - long time, no see. We must organise something soon. Look, can you do me a favour? No, not that!" she laughed and rolled her eyes. "Talk to a friend of mine? We think you have some information he might find helpful. Things you have talked to me about. Yes, I know." she nodded and smiled into the phone, and listened. "OK, I'll tell him. Thanks. How will you recognise him? Tall dark and handsome with wild hair and eyes to drown in. Yeah. See you. Thanks, Dale."

She put the telephone away.

"He is a good man, Sherlock. He will meet you at El Vino's on Fleet Street at 5.30pm. Will that do?"

"You work wonders!" he said. And as she stood to leave he caught her arm and placed a kiss carefully on her cheek.

 _More demonstrative than normal; a sign of exhaustion and stress. Mine and hers. Must stop doing this…_

She swayed towards him. Lifted his arm off hers, patted it, and dropped it gently.

"You don't have to be nice to me," she said calmly. "I owe you. More than you know. I still feel as if I betrayed you back then….and have felt guilty about it for a long time. I truly do want to make amends….was trying to do that with our interview. Until Magnussen hi-jacked it."

"I know that. It's work in progress." He reassured, saw her out and shut the door behind her. "I'll be in touch."

He stood in the middle of the room, indecisive. But he had just enough time to get to Fleet Street and see Dale Pike before he had to meet Janine at Angelo's. There would be time to rest later.

o0o0o0o

What is probably the most fabled wine bar in London is a narrow ordinary looking wine shop on the most famous newspaperman's street in the world: except all the newspapers have moved from the centre of the city out to Canary Wharf. But the courts and the City are close to El Vino's, so the building remains a world heartbeat of news and influence.

The second home and powerhouse of the country's most influential legal minds and journalists. El Vino's wine merchants and shippers is an ordinary looking bar more than 250 years old, converted from a Victorian hall of mirrors, all mahogany panelling and secret nooks.

In his smart suit Sherlock did not look out of place among so many other smart suits. The place was busy, and there was the usual vivid buzz of conversation. No-one looked up as he entered, no-one appeared to take any notice of him.

As a man who rarely drank alcohol he played safe ordering a small glass of vintage Bordeaux and stayed at the bar, listening to the conversations, half turning to watch the room. A fair haired man in his early Fifties, going grey at the temples, eventually extricated himself from a full table of fast talking middle aged men by the entrance and came across, hands in pockets of a rumpled linen suit, a man with keen hazel eyes and a distinct stoop.

"Would you be Kitty Haig's friend?" the man asked. And when Sherlock nodded he added: "She didn't tell me your name, but you certainly match the description. I'm Langdale Pike."

"Pleased to meet you and thank you for agreeing to see me. I'm Sherlock Holmes," said Sherlock, holding out his hand.

"Oh my God. You are too!" The journalist stepped back in genuine surprise, then clasped the handshake enthusiastically. "No wonder she didn't tell me your name! She knows I would have thought she was teasing me."

"Why would that be?"

"I used to tease her about her Richard Brook exclusive: couldn't help it." He smiled, bobbed his head in apology. "So if she had told me the person who wanted to talk to me was Sherlock Holmes, she knew I would never have believed her."

He laughed, collected a fresh and larger glass of red wine, and motioned Sherlock over to an empty booth deeper within the bar.

"We can be more private over here…" he said. "…and then you can ask me what you want to know."

They settled in the old uncomfortable miserecord style seats and studied each other.

"I'm a social editor. All the news about people and what they get up to. Used to be a top investigative journalist, but got sick of being punched on a daily basis."  
"Langdale Pike. Unusual name. Did your parents like the Lake District?"

"Yeah. A name as mad as yours."

"We are both blessed," Sherlock murmured.

They shared a smile; two cynical disillusioned men who had seen too much.

"So: I assume you used to work with Nick Haig?"

"Could say that. He was my trainee years ago. A good man with an unbeatable instinct for something wrong, things out of kilter."

"Is that what got him killed?"

Pike paused with his glass half way to his mouth and slanted a sharp appraising look.

"You don't hang about, do you?" he asked. "Look. It was a hit and run in his own street. The police investigated, but couldn't find the car; a popular make, cloned plates, evening darkness, dodgy distant CCTV, no ID. But - if you are asking me - I would say yes. That ability is what got him killed."

"So what was he working on when he died?"

"Nothing in there personal enough - a health trust fraud. I couldn't make a connection to past stories either."

Dale Pike ducked his head, twirled his glass, thinking hard.

"Tell me," Sherlock intoned quietly. "Tell me what you are avoiding thinking."

"Don't miss much, do you, Sherlock Holmes? Is everything else they say about you true?"

"Don't know what that is. So possibly."

"She's a sweet girl, Kitty. Good journalist. Not brilliant, but good. Not as good as Nick. Nick was a natural…"

"You are telling me that if they had not fallen in love, Nick Haig would still be alive?"

"Hmnn…" Dale Pike shook his head. "Don't be so sharp. Sounds a bit simplistic when you put it like that. But basically - yeah. I think so. "

"Why?"

"Everything was OK until she got the job offer from _The Briefing._ Chance of a lifetime to be offered a top feature writer's job on that. She was so thrilled. Nick less so. Not because he wanted to hold her back, or keep her working on the same news desk as him. Simply because he knew in his heart she just wasn't good enough to deserve a break like that." Pike took a long pull of wine as if it was beer and grimaced.

"There was no way he could say that to her, of course. He loved her, never wanted to undermine her. So he looked for the real reason. Well, she wasn't being offered high status and low salary, or even vice versa. The editor didn't fancy her. Turned out the newspaper's owner had himself suggested her for the job. And he is a person an editor defers to if he has any sense.

"Charles Augustus Magnussen," Sherlock stated.

"You know. Kitty thought it flattering. Nick found it dangerous. So he started looking into Magnussen, wanted to know what they were dealing with. Started putting gossip and fact together, started keeping an eye on what the man was doing, who and what he focussed on."

"So he started to put File 3113 together."

"Dale Pike spluttered into his wine.

"Jesus Christ. How do you know about that? No-one knows about that - certainly not Kitty; she never had a clue. I only know because I was always Nick's mentor; he was also a friend and he talked to me. I never saw it. But how did you know about it?"

"That is who I am. What I do."

"In that case I'm glad I don't have to come up against you." He paused, thought. Sherlock watched the cogs turning. "Are you going up against Magnussen in some way, Holmes? Are you challenging him?"

Sherlock turned a blank impassive face to him.

"Not necessarily."

"Oh yes you are, you bastard," Pike enunciated slowly. "I know when I'm being stonewalled."

Suddenly hot eyes met Sherlock's.

"Don't mess with me. This is too important. I think Magnussen had Nick killed because he knew Nick was sniffing around; and Nick had a reputation for finding what he was looking for. And Nick might stop Kitty taking the job. If he knew Nick was on his tail - and soon due to appear before a government elect committee - Magnussen would see Nick as a threat and a potential instrument to lead to his downfall.

I think he wanted to employ Kitty for a purpose. And the only significant thing about our Kitty, lovely though she is, was that she was connected to you and that maniac Moriarty. Moriarty is dead. So that leaves only you."

o0o0o0o

Janine Hawkins reached across the table and smoothed the cut on his face with gentle fingers.

"It mars your beauty, little one. Does it hurt? How did you do it?"

 _A girl tried to carve me open with the heel of her shoe. Fancy fighting her for me?_

"Walked into a door," he said. Just as he had to Lestrade and Kitty..

She gave him a very old fashioned look and clearly did not believe him. Fiddled with the fork on her plate as she ate her seafood risotto and again apologised for hauling him into Angelo's.

"You should have said you were so tired and did not feel well. I would have understood."

He had not actually said that to her. She had taken one look at him and had assumed it. He found that disconcerting.

"You are too good to me. Too understanding. I don't deserve you," he murmured quietly. The words were true enough, just not as she interpreted them.

"You deserve the best of everything," she said softly. Sherlock looked at her in something like astonishment. Looked again, deep into her face.

 _Good lord, she's falling in love with me. She is actually falling. In love. With me. How ..? Why the….? What in heaven have I done to produce this result?_

He had to work hard to keep the shock of realisation from his face.

"That everything is you. I am blessed," he said. There was emotion in his voice he could not hide, as the deduction he had just made had surprised him so much. It was just not the emotion she interpreted it to be, but he had no intention of disillusioning her.

He was starting to sound like a romantic novel, he thought. He was so tired and felt so ill the words were dribbling out and not only betraying him, but committing him to something he did not want: love, affection, intimacy. All he really wanted, all he was here for, was the insight into Magnussen and his schedule Janine could provide. He desperately did not want this situation to get out of control.

He reached across and touched her hand lightly.

"Enough about me - you will embarrass me. What have you been doing since I saw you last?"

So she told him. Told him all about her two days at work, what Magnussen had been doing and thinking, where he had been and where he was going to be. All went into a compartment of that eidetic memory.

As they left Angelo's and strolled slowly towards Baker Street, Janine turned to Sherlock, put out a hand and tugged him to a stop on the dark empty pavement.

"Call me a cab, Sherlock Holmes. Then go home and sleep."

Her honey brown eyes looking up at him were warm, and he flinched at the care he saw in them.

 _Care? For him? No. No!_ _Please, no._

"Sure?" He asked. The sense of reprieve made him feel weak.

"You are too exhausted to be sociable, and I am too fond of you to make you be. Go home and sleep."

He was so grateful and drained with the relief of no longer having to act a role that he slumped a little, allowed her to kiss him in the street, in public, put her hands around his waist, work her mouth against his lips and gently ease them apart.

Her lips were warm and gentle, but quietly insistent, proving themselves against his, trying to take his mouth. He had to stop her…..

He raised an awkward hand and cupped her face gently with it. It stopped her as required. She smiled, and saw even that small touch he had himself initiated as progress.

"There; that wasn't so hard, now was it?" she breathed into his lips.

 _I am and remain a total bastard…._

"Fancy going out clubbing tomorrow?" he asked. "To the Il Rondo?"

She beamed at him as if he offered a gift, a blessing. A special treat. He frowned. They were words he had never joined together before. All experience is education. He had no idea how to behave in a club. How to do modern dancing. How to resist the temptations…

He blamed Langdale Pike.

o0o0o0o

Realising he knew more about Nick Haig's file than Dale Pike, he responded to an immediate instinct and asked:

"You are a social editor. If I describe a couple to you, could you tell me if you know them?"

"Try me."

"Late twenties. Both slim and blond. He is tall, narrow hips and shoulders. Blue eyes, small ears, flatish features. Thinks he is a martial arts expert. The girl is small, short bubbly hair, vivacious. Both a touch feral. Jokey, self possessed. Sharp. Could be brother and sister. Might be twins?" He thought a little.

"More than just a working team. They could be in private security, or work for a detective firm. Ex forces, one or both of them? Have a lot of contacts, I think. Might be seen as close to Magnussen. Might give the image of incestuous. Her name may or may not be Marie. Any ideas?"

"Dale Pike consulted the glass of wine as if it was a crystal ball. Nodded to himself.

"Do you do the clubs, Mr Holmes?"

"Well, I belong to the Explorers, of course, and the Diogenes….."

Pike burst out laughing, genuine full bodied laughter.

"God, you rich posh boys! I don't mean gentleman's clubs, you idiot, I mean clubs; you know - clubs; drinking and dancing and drugs and mixing with the right people. Like Stringfellows, The Hacienda, Ministry of Sound. Clubs!"

Sherlock Holmes looked blank and shook his head.

"I think you need to take your girlfriend to the Il Rondo in Soho…" Pike advised. "Popular venue, has good live acts as well as great DJ's. Run by a young couple for their father. He's old money. An MP. His kids are Mark and Marie Dixon Carr. Appear a lot in the gossip columns; 'poor little rich kids having fun' sort of stuff."

"Has he got a broken arm?"

"Hell, mate, how am I supposed to know? But go see. First reaction is, it sounds like it might be them. But if not - get back to me."

Sherlock Holmes bought Dale Pike another glass of wine and went away with information and a telephone number.

 _And so begins my own pincer movement_.

The day was turning out better than it had started.

TO BE CONTINUED…

 **Author's notes:**

Langdale Pike is a lesser character from ACD canon. A journalist and gosip writer, he otherwise appears in _The Adventure of the Three Gables._

 _El Vino's,_ on Fleet Street _,_ remains the most famous wine bar in London. Still the haunt of lawyers and journalists. Immortalised as _Pommeroy's Wine Bar_ in _Rumpole Of The Bailey._


	13. Chapter 13

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 13: 'Maybe we started this fire….'

"Mr Holmes for Mr Magnussen."

The receptionist at CAM News checked the computer screen before her, frowned and looked at him properly.

"I don't think so, sir. You did have an appointment, but it has apparently been cancelled."

Not by me. I am here. Look!"

He held up his arms as if to say 'Tah-dah!' and gave her his best manic smile.

The receptionist frowned again.

"Please bear with me while I check, sir," she said, and picked up a telephone.

Sherlock, having no doubt that every CCTV camera in the building would now be turned his way, exuded amiable but slightly bemused body language, turned carefully so that the violin case on his back would be in full view, and was the picture of patience.

Eventually she beckoned him to return to the desk, held out a temporary pass, and gestured behind him to an almost invisible silver reeded door.

"Mr Magnussen's personal lift. Use the pass on the encoder and go to Floor Thirty Two. You will be met."

Sherlock nodded his thanks and did as he was bid. The same impression as before; an almost impregnable fortress with extreme high grade security.

The lift glided to a stop and the door slide open. He stepped forward into a foyer of steel and blond wood. Looked around. Heard footsteps, hurrying. Magnussen himself. Looking rushed, a little flustered. Sherlock resisted the temptation to grin to himself.

"Sherlock! I thought you weren't coming…."

"I said I would be here. If I wasn't coming I would have informed you."

"I thought you were abroad? In Europe?"

"No. Not me."

 _So the tracker is still attached to the car, moving around Brussels, still doing it's work. Even though it is in the wrong place…for everyone but me. How gratifying. My magic trick, Mr Magnussen. Not yours, for a change. One to me…and now I know who planted the tracker, and when. And how someone - you - knew where I was and when. Just the why left, then._

"Must have been one of those technological gremlins," Mangnussen said smoothly, although visibly rattled, and puzzled, too. "In the computer system." He reached out to put a hand onto Sherlock's back as if in greeting - and made contact only with the violin case. Their eyes met - very close - and Sherlock smiled with an intended ingenuousness. Magnussen frowned.

And Sherlock then knew with total certainty that Magnussen would find another opportunity to touch his back, reach up between the shoulder blades, to feel for the little silver cylinder Piet Bruhl had removed. Reach for a scab or a plaster…and he was glad he had gone for the option of superglue, an almost invisible repair job even on epidermis.

"Please- come in," Magnussen ushered him through the corridor into the penthouse. "I am sorry. I was otherwise engaged. We seem to have crossed wires somewhere. There was an assumption our appointment had been cancelled."

 _Because the tracker left Copenhagen and is still sounding away in Brussels. Where you thought I was - away and out of your way - until this very minute. Nasty shock, was it? The tracker sounding out without me carrying it. Oh, yes. The benefits of technology cuts both ways._

"Don't worry, Mr Magnussen. These things happen. But I did bring my violin. As requested."

"Too kind," Magnussen demurred, leading the way into his apartment, a large Scandi style living space, minimalist in concept, walls of glass giving out light and tremendous views, an amorphous space of black kitchen, white seating, silver birch dining area. A huge surround sound TV system, three abstract artworks, reindeer skin rugs.

"Can I offer you lunch? I was about to prepare myself a simple meal - gravadlax, salad, cold boiled potatoes….? You are welcome to join me."

He strode to the American refrigerator, started taking out food, creating a meal to go onto black plates.

"Not for me, thank you. I ate yesterday." Sherlock hitched a shoulder casually against a kitchen cupboard, surprised Magnussen thought he would even consider sharing a meal with the man in his own environment, risk being drugged again or poisoned. In the presence of the man who was, in effect, the killer of Nick Haig - and who else?

The unthinking manipulative arrogance of the man showing again. This would be Magnussen's downfall, in the final analysis. "But please go ahead. I can play while you eat."

"How…considerate," Magnussen managed, collating food with quiet economical movements. "A glass of chilled white wine, then?"

"I don't drink."

"You don't eat. You don't drink. Do you do anything, Mr Holmes?"

"I play the violin."

Sherlock smiled a cool smile and slipped out of the leather straps holding the violin case on his back. Removed his coat and jacket to fold them both onto a chair, and unhurriedly removed the violin and the bow from the case, put resin on the bow, dusted the Guarneri with a soft cloth, readying to play with quiet unhurried movements.

Magnussen sat down alone at the too large dining table with his meal and his wine, while Sherlock stood ready, facing him.

"So how are you going to entertain me, Mr Holmes?"

That undercurrent in play again. Sherlock registered it and ignored it, focussed on what he must do. Played off it.

"Whatever you request, Mr Magnussen. A rondo? Jazz, the classics, a medley?"

The Dane gestured with his cutlery.

"Oh no, please - the choice is yours. I am just your delighted audience. Yes? Please just go ahead."

Sherlock nodded, raised the violin.

He tested some notes, re-tuned the strings. Began to play. Something lilting, joyful, becoming faster and more complex. Irresistible music, well suited to a violin.

He watched Magnussen pause in lifting salmon to his mouth, frown a little as he recognised the music, clear his forehead then grin.

 _Play the music, tug the line, play the fish on the end of it…._

He knew the music was irresistible; it has been for generations. He began with a _sekstur,_ moved seamlessly into a couple of _springheads,_ a _polka,_ a _sonderhoning_ and a couple of _schottis._ Finished with a flourish.

"How do you know the music of my homeland, Mr Holmes?" Magnussen was smiling; Sherlock had caught a mood. The man looked softer, more human, than he had ever seen him.

"I know a great deal of music. The music of Denmark is little heard, but beautiful nevertheless. Perhaps I should be playing this on a Hardanger fiddle for the full and proper effect, even though that is a Norwegian instrument; so the Guarneri will have to do," he said; thoughtful, learned, meditative. "An Irish style Danish jig is a perfect start to get feet tapping, various European versions of polkas, and beautifully tonal dance music. A happy reminder of home for you, perhaps."

'For you.' A calculated phrase to intimate a personal interest and connection. Before the Dane could reply he changed tone and style; the slow mood music of Bach's Violin Partita Number Two. The sounds hung in the air, deep, reflective, demanding virtuoso playing, and although his instincts were on full alert, the greater part of Sherlock's consciousness had lost itself in the complexity of it.

His peripheral vision showed Magnussen frozen, concentrating on the music, watching with an almost furious fascination. And when he stopped - holding the violin out from his body, sweeping a formal bow - he saw Magnussen jolt back to awareness.

 _Gotcha! But whatever will this achieve?_

"So: why did you want to see me?"

He returned the Guarneri and bow to their case in swift precise movements. He wanted to appear brusque and businesslike.

"I….that was remarkable. A privilege. Thank you."

"Why did you want to see me?"

He ignored the compliment, wanted Magnussen on the back foot to disturb the older man's equilibrium, to try and get something genuine - revealing - in words and reaction. To get past the neutral façade of the predator. It was not easy.

Magnussen rose slowly from the table.

"In a moment. There is no rush." He stepped forward to look into the case at the violin, fascinated. "Please tell me about this beautiful instrument."

"It is an antique violin made by an Italian family workshop called Guarneri. They are very sought after. This model has been in my family's ownership for many years. I learnt to play on it when I was a child."

"So I assume it is like the more famous Stradivarius? Worth a small fortune?"

"I suppose so. But as I say, it is a family piece and probably has not been valued for over 100 years."

Magnussen nodded, absorbing the information. He reached out a slender hand to trace the intricacy of the scroll. And in so doing left a dull mark on the patina, from moist skin.

"I am sorry; I have a condition."

"Yes. Palmar hyperhidrosis. Not uncommon. A misalignment of the nervous system. I hope you are not inconvenienced by it?" Sherlock was polite, incurious, unaffected.

"You are not….repulsed?" Magnussen asked, looking up at him almost as if in surprise, somehow softened, stepped closer.

"Why should I be? It is quite common. Neither contagious nor fatal, merely an aspect of being human." Sherlock had been expecting this; held himself under fierce self control. For in the final analysis he did not want to reveal, everything about Magnussen repulsed him.

"Ahhh…"

Charles Augustus Magnussen put out a hand, assuming from the words of Sherlock Holmes that the young man was accepting of him, interested even. And submitted to impulse. Only Sherlock knew they were dancing a dance.

So he waited, apparently relaxed, apparently in neutral gear, expecting the older man to now put fingers to his cheek. And he had decided he would let him. Instead the damp palm curved, firmly yet gently, around his throat.

Sherlock knew how to respond to that, how to do that dance. He pulled his head slightly back and to one side, to tilt and expose the column of his throat so the neck lengthened, making the arteries and muscles chord and stand out. He swallowed and watched Magnussen watch the Adam's apple move, then whisper his fingers across it.

 _Lessons learnt the hard way so long ago; pushed down, never forgotten. Sweet Jesus…_

He looked at Magnussen from under long lashes that fluttered lazily. And as he felt the fingers on his throat tighten involuntarily, he also heard a tight breath sucked in.

"You have….a beautiful throat."

"A strange compliment I have heard before," Sherlock said, stock still, mentally poised as well as physically posed, and apparently still unmoved.

"And those tiny moles upon it are a unique flaw." He felt those alien fingers snag and tease the small skin eruptions. " Why do you not have such imperfections removed?"

"Because I do not think of them as such."

"Only a truly handsome man could be so careless of his looks. Even about what must be such an irritating little mole on the right hip?"

The room turned cold. Magnussen lifted his eyes from perusing Sherlock's neck to now look deep into Sherlock's eyes. There was challenge there in those pale blue shark's eyes, and a spark of what would be called excitement if displayed by anyone else.

Sherlock declined to rise to the bait. His eyes remained their usual unfathomable opaline selves. He did not visibly react to the challenge Magnussen had just thrown down, the knowledge he had just admitted.

This man knew more about him than he should, Sherlock registered the thought as if from a long way off.

So this man had seen him naked. Sherlock already knew that; so why was his skin crawling? Very few people had ever seen that hidden mole. For Sherlock was a prim and secretive man at heart. Private. Controlled. Who else would know?

Mycroft, because he is his brother. John Watson, because they have shared a home and mutual support and succour. Lestrade, his bridge, his anchor and sometime father figure, from depths and damages over so many years since. Molly, so recently, who is professional, and in this would be unregarding…..So this proves that here indeed was the man responsible for his assault at Appledore.

But he knew that already, didn't he? And Magnussen must have known he would have that awareness. Even though he was deliberately and firmly not using or registering it. So why was Magnussen now revealing his hand and labouring the point? To try and gauge how much - if anything - Sherlock remembered of his time in Appledore? And to provoke emotion?

"Not at all," Sherlock dismissed neutrally, almost as if he had not heard, not connected the words with the situation, and yet also moved softly away from Magnussen's hand, almost as if he had not even noticed it there. "No-one but me sees it." He omitted to add: "or should know it is there."

He did not betray by word or movement that he understood what Magnussen had just admitted. Or even have offered to him as a taunt, a power play, as a control. Did not ask Magnussen how he knew. Wanted Magnussen to think he had no memory at all about what happened to him before he turned up on Katherine Haig's doorstep.

He also knew - from a hitch in breathing, a sharpening of concentration, a soft move fractionally closer - that Magnussen was dying for him to ask. To open a door Sherlock had no intention of approaching or going through just now.

The hand dropped from his neck, trailed softly around his body as Sherlock turned, then glided along his back and pressed firmly between the shoulder blades as if making a touch of friendliness and appreciation, not probing for secrets. The superglue had done it's work, and with a shirt between both sets of skin, there was nothing for Magnussen to feel or to register. Sherlock watched him frown, felt the fingers splay and probe again.

For a man who loathed being touched, he was standing outside himself now, observing rather than reacting, knowing that enduring and encouraging Magnussen's touch was the only way to knowledge and power. Knowing that Magnussen found the need to put hands upon him irresistible.

"You are a man of endless fascination, Mr Holmes," Magnussen smiled at him, remaining too close.

"Oh, I'm really not," Sherlock demurred. "But you said you wanted to see me? And I assume for something other than music-while-you-work, mere pleasantries or getting up close and personal?"

Magnussen chose to ignore that tiny probe, clearly wanted to set the pace himself.

"Yes. Of course. Forgive me. I allowed myself to become distracted." The unspoken words - _-by you -_ hung in the air between them, and Magnussen's eyes lingered. Fascinated by the blank and bottomless look of Sherlock Holmes' enigmatic irises. Without any readable reaction Magnussen finally backed off slightly, clearly puzzled. Backed off enough not to have to be physically made to do so. It was a close run thing.

He lifted his hand from Sherlock with slow reluctance, and Sherlock still affected not to notice. The Dane moved to sit back down at the table, gestured to Sherlock to take a seat opposite him. And Sherlock did.

"I wish to put a proposition to you. A business proposition."

"Go ahead."

"I find I need the services of a detective. I am a newspaper magnate, Mr Holmes. News is my career and my lifeblood. Facts. Information. Connections. Ever new, ever changing.

"Like all newspapermen I need my sources. I have a lot of sources. But always looking for new ones, new stories, But I've never had a detective. It strikes me now that a detective would be very useful to me. A detective like you."

"Why like me?"

"Why not? You are a very special individual and you know a lot of people. And in so many different strata of society. You can open doors. I rather like the idea of those doors opening. For me. Because of you. With information."

Sherlock bit back his instinctive denial. Appeared to consider.

"I am a consulting detective. Not a private detective or an enquiry agent - either of which would be more suitable to your needs, I think."

"Oh no, Mr Holmes. I think you would be ideal." He smiled and Sherlock thought of the smile on the face of the tiger. "I will pay you well. I am a good employer. Perhaps I can tempt you?"

"Perhaps you can." Took a deep breath, looked slowly into the older man's eyes for that telling beat too long, held the look, held Magnussen's eyes, and committed to his purpose. "Let me think about it. Let me think about….. many things."

Fire flared expressively behind Magnussen's cold pale blue eyes before he quelled his response. But not before Sherlock saw it.

"At this point perhaps I should expect no more. However -" he paused, and there was something almost youthful and hesitant in his look. "- I have a special function at the Guildhall to attend next week. I attend very few of the social invitations I receive. But perhaps you will think on what I have said and you would do me the honour of accompanying me, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock kept his expression mild, lightly amused, politely interested. Manipulation. Male identity and power. Identity and need. Yes. Revulsion was screaming for control of his senses, but he shut the feeling firmly down into it's box.

 _This is for The Work. Be still._

"To attend any function at a venue as special as The Guildhall would be a rare delight. So yes, I would be honoured to join you. At….?"

"A presentation evening for a leading member of the Guild of Merchant Pursers; Lord John Smallwood. You know him, perhaps?"

The query was so smooth Sherlock could have almost missed the probe behind it.

"The name only. An acquaintance of my brother," he answered smoothly. "Not exactly in my orbit. My brother and I do not socialise mutually, nor have much of what you might call a sibling connection."

"I have a similar lack of connection with my own brothers," Magnussen admitted. "You have my sympathy. And fellow feeling." The man actually smirked.

"Thank you."

Sherlock stood to leave.

"You are a busy man. I must not keep you any longer. Thank you, Mr Magnussen. For a meeting of much interest."

Magnussen also rose, stepped forward and watched quietly as Sherlock put his jacket and coat back on, hefted the violin case onto his back. Unbidden, the older man tidied and straightened the leather straps across Sherlock's shoulders, and Sherlock let him without comment, watched him do so in reflection through the glass wall.

The Dane took his upper arms in a brief formal embrace of farewell. Sherlock placed his hands carefully onto the forearms and returned the half hug, and felt Magnussen's lips whisper delicately against his jaw line. Their eyes met, and Sherlock let his linger, looking up at the taller and older man from a little too close. Magnussen returned his look with a shift from concentration into smile.

"My car will collect you. Seven o'clock on Wednesday evening? Yes?"

"Yes, thank you. I look forward to it." Sherlock confirmed and stepped away.

 _Public school manners, default to correct etiquette, engage ability to dissemble….._

Magnussen walked with him, pressed the button to call the private lift, and watched until the door closed and he was moving downwards. Conscious of CCTV within the building, Sherlock did not relax until striding a corner away from the CAM Building, walking faster and faster, his hands fisted within his pockets, fingernails hard into his palms until they hurt.

Too much. This was too much.

o0o0o0o

She is quite beautiful He wondered if he should tell her?

"I like the way you are looking at me," she said, leaning into him and whispering into his neck. He felt the drift of her warm breath upon him and smiled warmly at her.

She did not know she was camouflage and disguise, of course. That her presence in the long aquamarine silk dress was arm candy to hide behind. If she realised this she would still probably laugh. She was not a girl lacking courage or personality. That recognition did not make him feel any better.

He handed her out of the taxi on the carriage sweep by St Paul's Cathedral, and they walked into the spaghetti of little lanes and alleys that constitute that part of town. The club that is the Il Rondo was once a bonded warehouse and as just one more couple amongst all the other people attending the popular venue, they passed inside unheralded and unnoticed.

The darkness, the light show and the harsh, bass heavy music set his teeth on edge. But he was clearly the only person uncomfortable in that environment. Janine was smiling and swaying, moving to the beat. He looked at her as if she was a stranger in this alien world.

"Great ambience!" she shouted at him over the noise. "Drinks?"

He made his way to the bar, where his water with lemon and ice looked very similar to her long vodka and tonic. They found a small table away from the main traffic, giving Sherlock a broad aspect view, and sat down. Sherlock leant back and observed.

People were dancing on the sprung cedarwood floor, conversing in small groups, partaking of liquor and snacks, drinking with concentration or listening to what passed as music being produced by a group of three young men with electronic keyboards.

He was having problems processing the onslaught of noise and vibrations, sights and smells. He smelt sweat and cleaning materials, cosmetics and alcohol and drugs. The mixture created a cacophony of distaste to his senses.

Sherlock did not like to admit he had come out with earplugs to lessen the sound saturation; from where they were sitting he has a good view of most of the room. Conversation was well nigh impossible, but after some moments of observation he leant into Janine and asked:

"This is supposed to be pleasant? What young people do for a night out?"

She laughed at him, nodded. Mouthed: "Don't be such a superior young fogey!" and put her hands out to take his and drag him up and onto the dance floor

"You taught me to waltz. It's my turn now!" she shouted at him, and he smiled and shook his head.

She manipulated him to stand in front of her and began to sway to the music. He looked at her blankly, awkwardly immobile, so she stepped forward, put her hands on his hips and began to manually move his body to the music in sync with hers.

"Relax!" she shouted again. "Go with the flow! Do what I do!"

He looked around him, watched what other couples were doing, and capitulated; copied what he saw, feeling ungainly and self conscious by doing so, but feeling even more self conscious by not doing so. This was just so juvenile and awkward and hedonistic. Puerile and embarrassing.

 _How Mycroft would laugh if he saw this! Not funny, definitely not funny. It's work, Mycroft! Leg work!_

She had her little fingers hooked over the waistband of his trousers, stroked his hipbones with her thumbs, laughed into his face and swept him up into a hug that was light and easy and full of laughter. Her happiness was somehow contagious, and he found himself laughing with her, laughing at the situation and at himself. Before he remembered where he was, what he was doing, what he was looking for.

She put her arms round his neck, her forehead to his despite the tiny loss of self control that had been averted and she had not even noticed. She swung forward into his body, and he has no choice but to envelope her in his arms and laugh back at her, down into her smiling face. Going with the flow. Behaving like everyone else. Not standing out in this strange crowd. Weird. Unsettling. Somewhat embarrassing.

As he swayed and lifted and turned, he looked up from Janine's rapt expression pouring into his eyes. And then he saw her.

The girl from Copenhagen - the girl who spoke of bonfires and death. The girl with the kitten heels and the killer moves was standing by a doorway that clearly led to the heartbeat of the business, the private offices.

He had not really expected her to be there; had not expected to strike lucky at the first venue when trying to find her. He sent a brief prayer of thanks to Dale Pike for his knowledge and his help before he had to decide what to do next.

The girl who had said - surprisingly truthfully - that her name was Marie was standing with her arms crossed, exuding authority and decision in her body language. She wore what suited her; a plain but pretty midnight blue skater dress with leggings and Mary Janes, diamond clips in her hair. She looked classy, expensive and demure. Businesslike. Talking to a waitress who passed by her. Absorbed, she had not seen him.

He turned away from her eye line, turned Janine bodily with him. His instinct was to prowl, eavesdrop, dig in, investigate. But he had Janine with him; companion, camouflage and brake. The sense of urgency and decision coming from the girl called Marie was palpable to him. Something beyond keeping an even keel by running a club that was merely rocking.

"We need to leave," he declared into her ear, his tone brooking no argument.

"But we just got here!"

"I know. Sorry." he shrugged, tilted his head in apology. "The music and the strobe lighting are making me feel ill."

 _That was true. But it wasn't the only reason. Instinct was hammering him. Leave and live. Stay and suffer. No choice. No choice for the innocent, only for me. Sorry, Janine.I should never have brought you here to act as my disguise and bullet proof jacket….._

"Sensory perception problems?" she asked with immediate understanding. And he nodded, thanking the stars for her intelligence and sensitivity.

Immediately she took his hand, squeezed it, and turned him towards the entrance without complaint. And they strolled away, arm in arm. Sherlock risked a glance back to the office doorway and his heart lurched. The girl had gone. Moved.

He scoped the room as best he could - a brief turn away and towards Janine in the half darkness, distracting coloured strobe lights, too many people in between them - and he had lost her. For a moment his brain short circuited. Had he imagined her? Was he so tense he had imagined her?

It would make sense. She had almost killed him and he was too aware of that fact. She was Magnussen's animal - she had to be, with her talk of England, and of bonfires, and of warning him off - and he needed to find her, know her, neutralise her. Or what horrors would she and her brother do on the Dane's behalf otherwise? She - they - had already proved they would act and strike without fear or conscience. That they were prepared to strike. And to strike out at him specifically.

Would she be twice as likely to attack in revenge for the damage he had inflicted upon her brother? Would the brother be ready to hit back with a gun rather than a fist? Now that the fists had not succeeded and one of them was out of action?

And would the sins of the children be supported and backed by the father, MP or no?

Thinking about it, there was a lot of sense in Magnussen having hirelings such as Mark and Marie Dixon Carr.

Two young people in the public eye, wearing a veneer of glamour and influence.

A popular crowd base, customers of all ages and types, customers of money and affluence who wanted to be seen at the Il Rondo. A hot bed of gossip, indulgence, influence.

Managers who could manoeuvre and manipulate, dance and direct, give favour or fear; as likely to hand out a bonus as a backhander. From what he had seen of them the dual roles suited their personalities.

And what was the father's role in all this? An innocent money man? An indulgent father? Part of the publicity or part of the problem? And if part of the problem - what did he know of Magnussen's blackmail and manipulation? And was he an insider to the work of Magenta Rose? Insider and traitor? And one who could conspire with the Dane to destroy so many people with their combined knowledge and influence?

All these things ran through Sherlock's mind - shards of thoughts, shades of consequences - as he leant into Janine, walking slowly, looking around without giving the appearance of doing so.

And then he saw her again. He saw her because he was walking straight towards her. And he broke stride; she was standing by the exit doors now, talking to two of the bouncers. And he would have to walk within three feet of her to pass her by, to reach the open air and relative safety. Would she register him, recognise him? And if she did - what would she do? And would he survive?

Janine tugged him forward by her own unheeding momentum and he made the split second decision to hide in the only hiding place available. He half turned, dropped his face into her neck and heard her hum with pleasure as he did so.

 _I am a total bastard, but I'm cornered, Janine. Sorry. But there is no other way to get you safely out of here…_

His peripheral vision registered that Marie Dixon Carr was now looking directly at him. Would she recognise him in the half light? Be able to distinguish the dark haired man in the sharp suit with the classy girlfriend as the hip blond guy in the hoodie and earbuds who was better at swimming than fighting? How well did she know the sight of the real Sherlock Holmes?

"Janine!" he hissed, quiet but urgent.

She turned to him, eyes wide in surprise. He curved one hand around her shoulders, lifted that hand to her cheek and turned her face into his, volunteered a kiss and took her lips with his mouth. Silenced her, manoeuvred her to be his shield, hid his face, became invisible - all in one move.

She made a gasping sound and tried to ? Protest? Encouragement, even? Only one way to stop her when she might speak his name and be overheard; betray them both in her unwitting innocence. He drew her lips into his and eased her mouth gently open with his tongue. She was so taken aback she became plastic in his arms. He would have laughed and made a joke about how easy it was to sweep a girl off her feet if they had been in different circumstances. But as John Watson always nagged: _'Timing, Sherlock!'_

And this time his timing was more than critical. Janine murmured into his mouth and wound her arms about his neck. So he lifted her, straight up into his arms, like the hero of some Hollywood 'B' picture rescuing the heroine, and walked her out like that.

The tension in him as he had passed close to Marie Dixon Carr was so intense he felt she would feel the heat and the fear coming off him in waves. But her eyes just rolled past him and Janine - _more stupid oversexed punters, getting carried away with each other. Get a room! -_ he could almost hear her cynical thoughts as he passed her.

Janine was laughing into his mouth now as they reached the street, speechless but with eyes sparkling, body compliant, and he was smiling down into her eyes in return, his own eyes crinkling with victory and relief in a way he thought she would misunderstand the meaning of, and would possibly even describe as irresistible. That thought in itself should make him laugh out loud. Then cringe away from her, away from all this false romantic intimacy.

He passed the bouncers, passed through the main doors, past the queue of people waiting to get in. He walked away fast, expecting every moment to hear a shout, or running footsteps. He had a moment of heated memory, of running footsteps approaching him fast on the quayside in Copenhagen. A memory so sharp and immediate his legs trembled and he almost stumbled.

He walked away, and still held Janine tight and close, captive and safe in his arms as he walked.

She wound her arms closer and tighter around him. Closed her eyes and pressed her face deeper into his neck.

"Sherlock…." she murmured. "Do you realise how - romantic - and - sexy - this is?"

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" he exclaimed.

He was two corners and several hundred years away from the club, down a tiny side street that was little more than an alley. In the strange way of London, he was within yards of a busy main thoroughfare, but the alley they were in was deserted, silent, and they were totally alone. No-one was following them.

He decided it was safe to put her down now. So he stopped and did so. For some reason he did not understand her legs were weak and would not hold her upright when he put her feet to the ground, and he had to support her by the elbows for a moment.

"Are you OK?" he asked.

"Fine," she whispered. "Absolutely fine. More than fine…."

She reached up for his face.

"You are amazing," she exclaimed.

"No."

"Yes. Talk about sweeping a girl off her feet…." her voice died away and she touched his lips with gentle fingers.

"Please…no. I…." he was at a loss at what to say now. His actions had been necessary, but unforgivable. He had taken liberties to save them both…..and had stepped unwittingly into danger again. A different sort of danger. "That was unforgivable of me. I took a liberty. I was too forward. My apologies."

"Oh, Sherlock!" she kissed the end of his nose and rumpled his hair. "Two steps forward and one step back, little one. But we make progress. Oh yes."

He did not, could not, answer that. As they reached the main road the first taxi hailed came to his call, and he escorted her to her own flat, apologising for cutting short her evening out, pleading work and headache and exhaustion. She acquiesced with good nature, and kissed him chastely when she stepped out of the taxi in front of her block of flats.

The taxi then delivered him to Baker Street. Once inside he ran the stairs two at a time, shrugging out of his clothes as he did so. Within moments he was back into old cords, t shirt and anorak, tatty sneakers, a black beanie tugged low over his hair and ears, a backpack on one shoulder.

Paused at the desk long enough to write five brief identical notes, roll and fold each of them into twenty pound notes, put all the notes in his pocket. And race back out into the night.

TO BE CONTINUED….

 **Author's notes:**

Gravadlax is a Nordic way with raw salmon that cold cures the fish in sugar, salt and dill It is often served as an appetiser, or with boiled potatoes, hot or cold, and a dill and mustard sauce called hovmastarsas. An ancient way of keeping fish, it was once cured in a hole in the ground..

Danish folk music Sherlock plays, as arranged for classical quartet - violins, viola, cello - can be heard on the Danish String Quartet's CD _'Wood Works._ '

Sherlock chooses to play the Guarneri his mother inherited from her grandfather. This does not mean he does not also own the Stradivarius ACD attributed to him! I just prefer the Guarneri. And so, it seems, does he.

The South Norwegian hardanger fiddle has a unique and ethereal sound. It has eight or nine strings, the additional strings playing below the top ones as sympathetic or resonating strings. There are more than 20 different ways to tune a hardanger fiddle - one is called troll tuning - and there is much folklore involving God and the Devil about this instrument. It can be heard in much Scandinavian folk music as well as film soundtracks for the Lord Of The Rings trilogy and the Coen Brothers' film _Fargo._

Of all the many and varied versions of the Bach Partita, I recommend a listen to the Hilary Hahn version on YouTube; this has the clarity and precision I would expect to hear from Sherlock's playing. (There are also some very interesting comments from listeners who are also violinists which give good insight into playing the violin per se for non musicians.)

I regret to inform you that the Guild of Merchant Pursers does not exist. The Guildhall, in all it's ancient glory, fortunately does. Both appear very soon!


	14. Chapter 14

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 14: …"All the things that we had…"

He spent the night hunkered down in a doorway in Soho, apparently asleep and slumped in a corner, but in actuality all his concentration turned onto the rear entrance of the Il Rondo. Just in case. As a derelict on the street wrapped in an elderly sleeping bag, no-one would notice him there, nor would want to.

Throughout the night people came and went until the doors were finally bolted at 5am, shortly after the last clubber left by the front entrance. Bouncers, security men, waitresses, clerks, cleaners. An overview of them all gave an ambience of the club; the widest range of ages, types and cultures. Stylish, confident, assured.

Last of all to leave were the Dixon Carrs themselves. Just in case there had ever been any doubt, the young man he recognised from the quay of Nyhavn wore an Italian suit with the jacket slung over one shoulder, the arm not fitting the left sleeve due to the cast. Pretty formidable proof of identification, if such was needed. Mark Dixon Carr held the door for his sister, who came out carrying two bottles of vodka and a shoulder strapped briefcase.

Sherlock looked at the vodka with interest and wished both bottles and briefcase to magic themselves into his hands. Solitary drinkers or illicit goods? Taking two full bottles home at what most people would consider nearer breakfast time than happy hour when there had already been many hours available for a drink did indeed look suspicious. He followed them at a respectable distance as they walked away, talking quietly together, entering the closest par park. The Citroen Cactus that came down the ramp and into the road was driven by the girl, and Sherlock had no doubt they would be returning direct to their home in Hampstead; the other side of the heath from the Smallwoods.

Now he had his cash wrapped notes to distribute amongst select members of his homeless network: Joely and Sasha, Deeza, Raz and Jeanne. The word would go out, and anything that could be known would be known and passed on. All he had to do now was wait.

Back at Baker Street he showered and changed.

At some time after daylight and before breakfast a piece of triangular cardboard that had been round a BLT sandwich was pushed through the letterbox. He recognised the writing - Deeza Davis, who he had approached in his usual overnight spot in a corner of St Paul's Churchyard.

' _Ship narcs, fags, vodka thru club'_ the note said. _"Weekly. Next date TBC."_

 _Thank you, Deeza! I knew there was something!_

He burned the laptop on research. And found out more about the Dixon Carr's than was good for him.

Twin only children of Essex MP Dean Dixon Carr. Wild children from the first, expelled or suspended from a range of preparatory and private schools, growing up batty but beautiful and following the usual trail of ski lodges, race meetings, parties, lock-downs and raves.

Excellent newspaper fodder; rich and beautiful and short of balance and boundaries. Always good for a photograph and a quote. But beyond the sybaritic style there was another, darker thread.

Mark Dixon Carr on a forces sponsored university degree course had being thrown off it (the red tops said he was too gung-ho and over keen on discipline. Read between the lines) three small paragraphs in London newspapers detailing fines in magistrates courts for street assaults - over enthusiastic martial art reactions to small or imagined slights. Charity fund raising events at the club in recompense to attempt to soften the image.

Reckless, quick with his fists and to anger; a veneer of civilisation and responsibility, a rich kid recklessness that did not seem to have matured or receded with age. Which fitted with what Sherlock had seen of his ego driven fighting skills.

Twin sister Marie seemed more focussed but hardly less dangerous. Sport was clearly her enthusiasm and forte - and mainly sports that were newly opening up to women; rugby, football, boxing, cage fighting. Little wonder she had been such a hard and shrewd opponent. A part of him reluctantly recognised he had done well to stand up against her for as long as he did. She was the real danger.

He could easily see the Dixon Carrs as acolytes of Magnussen; a meeting of amoral minds, a great and bottomless source of news, gossip, information. Gathering gossip is something they would see as fun. But also as the exercise of power, of gathering influence.

But that was not enough. If they were using the club as a front for smuggling, fencing and handling a range of illegal or illicit goods….well, that would be much more fun. And they needed stopping from both activities.

For now he would need to wait for results from the street, to garner more information.

He switched on his phone, impatient. Texts swarmed in.

 **10pm: You better? GL**

DELETE

REPLY

 **08.14am: Fine. Busy. Any info on Mark and Marie Dixon Carr, the Il Rondo in Soho? SH**

 **10.32pm: I asked a question. Any answer? JW**

DELETE

 **11.03pm: Mark Dixon Carr does indeed have a broken arm. Says he tripped over a dog. How did you know? Pike.**

DELETE

REPLY

 **08.20am: Because I am a detective. And I was that dog. Any other gossip on MDC and sister? Any links to CAM? SH**

 **08.23am: Watch this space. Pike**

DELETE.

Think

 **00.01am: Feeling better? Any weekend plans? Night night! XX Janine**

DELETE

REPLY

 **08.22am: Yes. Thank you. Sunday afternoon? Regent's Park if fine? X SH**

 **08.15am: Tea on the patio. Collect you 3pm? George**

DELETE

THINK

 **08.26am: Yes. SH**

So Lady Smallwood wanted to see him. Yes. Perhaps there is need to confer and update, see if she has made any progress with the contents of File 3113.

He paced the floor, finally picked up the Guarneri and returned to the Bach partita he had played for Magnussen.

Magnussen.

Think about getting to the man. Think.

o0o0o0o

He does not like sunshine and thinks summer sweaty and uncivilised. So as the day was a hot summer Saturday, he lay on a Victorian steamer style deckchair complete with canopy, in the dappled shade of an apple tree. His disgarded suit jacket hung on a trimmed branch, but he had not deigned to roll up his sleeves beyond turning over the cuffs.

He heard distant lawn mowers, children playing, traffic. The occasional plane flying overhead. The birds were singing, there was scent of late lilac and musk roses. All was right with the world.

"I think they are into extortion and running any illicit material you can think of. I know they are vicious. I only need more proof than my word that they are muscle and more for Charles Augustus Magnussen. My team is on the case." Lestrade, Pike, Deeza…

He reached out for a stick of celery and nibbled it without opening his eyes.

"And the purpose of pursuing the Dixon Carr's is, exactly?"

"To chop off some of Magnussen's tentacles. Dangerous ones. Chip away at his structure. Limit his information gathering, start to restrict his power. Work from either end to destroy that power. They are also a distraction that needs to be out of the way. I cannot waste more energy on them than I need."

He had sat there on the patio at the Smallwood's house in Hampstead for an hour, giving an edited debriefing of his trip to Copenhagen. Elizabeth had brought out a tray with a jug of iced homemade lemonade, cooling nibbles of hulled strawberries, celery and carrot sticks. It all felt disorientating and relaxing.

He had told them about the fight on the quayside, but had played it down. Lady Smallwood gave him a brief old fashioned and disillusioned glance at that; interjected softly and briefly:

"Colonel Bruhl spoke to me."

Which stopped Sherlock in mid sentence and made him look away and change the subject.

"This is about more than just you, I am afraid, Jack"

Lord Smallwood, sitting in a similar chair opposite him, shrugged in resignation.

"No less than I would expect," he commented.

Sherlock shafted a look at him. The man was clearly unwell but on medication which was managing whatever was wrong, and the patient was treating the situation with his usual intelligent imperturbability. He was in his early seventies but looked younger, with sharp blue eyes in an unlined pleasant, not quite handsome, face.

He was witty, reasonable, considerate and yet a sharp and decisive business brain. His likeability was palpable, and if such things entered Sherlock's mind, he would be appalled that someone should be using such a good man as a tool for blackmail.

"I really thought I had destroyed my correspondence with Ellie," he mused into the air. "I kept it originally because she was such a bright girl, with a charm and a sense of purpose about her; I had no problems seeing her achieving all her ambitions and was naively happy to help.

"When I got the anonymous letter threatening blackmail I just ignored it; it was only later when I searched all my archives I found I still had Ellie's letters and photographs. And it was only later, by looking more closely, did I realise what I now had were just photocopies. Someone was very thorough, and very careful."

"Was it Magnussen himself?"

"I fear so. About five years ago I was on a charity fund raising committee; Magnussen offered to sponsor an event. He came to our old house in Belsize Park; I do remember on one occasion leaving him alone in my study while I took a private call. That may have been his chance. To meddle. Then bide his time." His face closes in distaste. "Five years is a long time to sit on something."

Sherlock nodded in understanding.

"At the time you had no reason to suspect him of wrong doing. And with a mutual charitable cause, trust was natural in the circumstances."

"That is kind of you to say so, William. After all the trouble we are putting you to." Jack Smallwood smiled, and for a moment his wife leant over and squeezed his hand. Something in Sherlock Holmes froze, pulled back.

"That is my work," he replied politely, and the older man's smile disappeared. "Try not to blame yourself too much. Many factors have brought you to Magnussen's attention now. Your illness. Elizabeth's select committee. The increasing high profile of the Sondersun's."

"I know. But I am still sorry to have involved you. Please believe me. Your independence and singularity were my last hope for justice and privacy."

The older man wavered to his feet, put a hand out to steady himself on the back of Sherlock's chair as he moved.

"It is fine, Jack. Really. You will be fine."

He looked down into Sherlock's eyes, muttered "reality check" so only he could hear, and patted the younger man's hand in passing. His skin felt lizard dry to Sherlock's touch, like wrinkled parchment.

"Forgive me. I am very tired. I am going in."

His wife and his detective watched his progress until he disappeared into the cool darkness of the house.

Immediately Lady Smallwood turned on Sherlock like a terrier.

"What is happening? What have you not told me?"

Her voice, light and relaxed so far, suddenly snapped into the sharp timbre of her professional self.

Sherlock avoided looking at her.

"I told you Piet Bruhl spoke to me - _he_ rang _me_ \- to tell me about what happened in Copenhagen. He thought you would have told me yourself by now. Why have you not? And why did you blank me when I mentioned it?"

He looked at her and took his time formulating a reply. For it was clear she would not look away until he did.

"I did not want to upset Jack. This case is turning out more difficult than I expected - darker and deeper. The more I find out about Magnussen, the less I like. The more vicious it becomes.

"I am increasingly convinced I have been on his radar for a long time - ever since I came back from the dead, in fact - and that although Jack's case seems to be that of just another victim in his regular line of control and coercion, I am also increasingly convinced he is working up to targeting Mycroft. The logical next target in the British government after the Smallwoods."

"Why?"

"Why not? It is only logical. Mycroft is the most powerful man in the country; so to follow Magnussen's psychology: go big, follow your ambition for ultimate influence. And anyway. Who else would you aim to snare after going for me first, using me as livebait? And he is definitely pursuing me, Elizabeth, with strong intent.

"There are no personal weaknesses I allow to influence me, but others - outsiders - would logically assume Mycroft is mine - and I his, just because we are brothers. When in truth no-one in the world would ever consider making any sacrifice for me."

"Yes. I agree." She paused, looked away into the middle distance, considering. Looked back at him. Took a slip of paper from her slacks pocket and handed it to him.

"What is this?"

"Your cheque. Full payment of your fee. I think it is best to remove you from the case now. Hand it over to our security forces. Which is what I should have done in the beginning."

He took it from her and looked at it.

"No," he said. He tore the cheque into tiny pieces and placed the pieces tidily on the drinks tray. "Not yet. You brought this to me. You committed me to it. You cannot take it away now."

"But I….."

"No, Elizabeth. And it is not just that I cannot give up a case half way through. This has become personal. I had not expected it to, but it has. It is not simply that my brother is the logical target, either. I have been part of both the problem and the solution to this for longer than either of us knew"

He did not tell her about his fears of a Magnussen connection to Mary Watson, his constant worry, and the unanswerable problem of Watson and bonfires. And Marie Dixon Carr's chatter about bonfires in Copenhagen which was looking increasingly relevant, even though he had no idea how.

"The key to this is getting to Magnussen's vaults where he keeps all his secrets and destroying them, and everything within. And yet how to do this thing? For no-one visits Magnussen - he is a recluse there, invites no visitors and guards his privacy. The fortress that is Appledore is impregnable. Believe me, I have tried….." for a moment his voice faded, lost.

And she noticed.

"What else are you not telling me, Sherlock?"

He shook his head, looked away.

"No," she insisted. "If you want to remain a part of this, you must tell me. Everything you have, everything you know. This is my directive, my overview. I need all your information while you are available to give it. Especially if I do finally have to take this from the personal to the professional and refer this upwards."

He drew a breath, not misunderstanding her meaning: if he was subverted, disgraced. Killed. He could understand her reasoning. Looked at her, looking for an escape route. But she held his eyes, refusing to give him one. He sighed, ducked his head in rare submission.

"I….made a miscalculation. I went to Magnussen's fortress and found it to be impregnable, shall we say. The man is manically secretive and security minded. But the security there is unbreachable. So that proves the vaults with all their secrets are there, doesn't it? As everyone tells me they are, including his own personal assistant.

"You don't have enough evidence for a search warrant, probably never would have. But Magnussen still needs stopping. The man does not entertain guests there. So an impasse exists that needs to be broken. I can't break in, I have tried. But I can get myself an invite. And if I get an invite, and get inside, I shall find the vaults and I shall destroy them. It appears I hold a unique key."

"Which is?"

"Me." Instead of raising his chin, eyes shining with his usual arrogance, Sherlock dropped his head sharply, expression unreadable. "He seems obsessed with me. Some sort of fixation, He wants to….to…" the words, equally unusually for him, stuttered to a stop.

"What? Buy you a lemonade? Coat you with icing sugar? Show you his stamp collection?"

His eyes remained on his feet, and she could not see his face or read his body language. She waited. Finally his head flicked up and back and he met her eyes defiantly. There was a strange dark light in those pale eyes, and a frisson of something she could not describe caught her spine.

"Be your age," he snapped before continuing more quietly: "I do not know how real this is - but Magnussen is wooing me. Real or a ruse? Either would achieve the same thing for him, so who cares? Me brought closer to him, closer to me being a lever against Mycroft. " He paused and shook his head. "I m having difficulty with the concept. Someone wanting me. A man I loathe wanting me. Having difficulty dealing with that. Satisfied?"

Perhaps this would have been less shocking to her if it had been in reference to anyone else; any other man - or woman - than the contained and isolated and damaged being that is Sherlock Holmes.

"Considering your looks rather than your personality, that should not be as surprising - or as shaming - as you seem to feel. Why does it disturb you so much?" She was being deliberately matter of fact, almost soothing in her coldness.

"It - I - " he started to speak, stopped again, his usual verbal fluency seeming to have deserted him. " I think - he - already -" shook his head and turned completely physically away from her.

"What you are telling me? Not telling me? I know you, William." She corrected herself; "Sherlock. I know your past. So why should this disturb you?"

His expression did not change, but she felt some indefinable reaction coming off him.

"I was attacked at Appledore. Drugged. Dumped twelve hours later on the doorstep of one of Magnussen's employees - someone who had written an article about me. Dumped in the dark, in the pouring rain. Photos were taken of me - ill, disorientated - and peddled to the national press, Please do not insult me by pretending you did not see them!"

She shrugged. "I ignore the popular press. Scoundrels and liars,"

"Quite so. But the fact remains that I lost twelve hours I cannot remember. I was pumped full of enough drugs over those twelve hours to have killed me if I had normal tolerances. Magnussen is dangerous, Elizabeth. Trust me."

"What drugs?"

"GHB and ketamine."

"I see."

"Do you? Do you really?" Scathing, scouring. "Do you know what those drugs do?"

"Yes. Date rape drugs. Are you trying to tell me he raped you while you were drugged? Somnophilia? Necrophiliac tendencies? It would make sense. In the circumstances."

"Do _try_ to not let that bother you," His sarcasm could not disguise his disgust.

"Don't turn into the ravaged virgin over this. It does not suit you." Her voice sharply called him back to her.

 _The iceman and the virgin…..Oh!_

"Am aware. Thank you. But you did insist on knowing."

She shrugged, and sighed, and leant forward to make him look her in the eyes.

"You are afraid he will drug you again. That he will have his way with you and then kill you."

"Such a quaint turn of phrase. But yes. It is the reasonable conclusion in the circumstances."

"Why does that worry you? After your…..past transgressions, shall we say."

He snapped a curt negative with his head. "Not going there."

Why have you let this get so far?"

"It is the only way in. The only Magnussen weak spot I can find, that will get me into Appledore."

"You have done this sort of thing before, Sherlock."

"Yes," His voice was slow and deliberate. "But that was a long time ago. When I was in a deep hole in a dark place. No choice then. Survival when shame is a luxury you cannot afford. Still, the younger you learn how debauched the human soul can be is a lesson never learnt too early, nor ever wasted."

He avoided looking at her, keeping his voice light, but she silently noted a reticent, deeply private man bleeding out.

"I clawed my way out of that with too much damage. Sex and emotion would never touch me again. Never mark me or break me. I have excised _emotion - sentiment -_ from within myself. I have no sexuality. No feelings." He dragged a deep breath. "But this problem is nothing to do with my unforgiveable ….."

"Stop this self flagellation, William. It is not necessary."

"Oh, but it is. Does Magnussen know about my past on the street? What I did out there? If he does, when will he use it as a lever against me? If he does, what else would he use it for? To bend me to his will? Put me through it again? Accuse Mycroft of complicity? I cannot…." His arm flailed in a gesture of frustrated dismissal. "Still, it's only sex, Lady Smallwood. Nothing for you to worry about. So. Lie back and think of England. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer. Indeed so."

He laughed, voice on the edge of hysteria. Clamped his hands over his mouth to stop the sound in a deeply uncharacteristic gesture that spoke more than words.

"Control yourself, you pathetic boy."

"Yes, I know." He pushed his hands together, breathed deeply. She waited.

"Erm…." his voice wavered. He coughed and tried again. "Sorry. Erm….what have you learnt from the memory stick 3113.?"

"" I wondered when you were going to ask," she nodded. "We are still investigating all the names and links. But basically my committee feels there is enough there to bring him back to answer to us further. And there will be harder and more specific questions this time."

"About bloody time. He sidesteps you all too well."

"Indeed. But we are building a case. From the names on the stick we are able to make educated guesses about people who have dropped out of their lives, out of sight. It is laborious back tracking, but will prove incontrovertible in the end. And if cases present where extortion can be proved, we will pursue those through the courts."

"He will need stopping before then."

"I am not arguing with you." She nodded; knows they shared a hard accord.

She watched the slow sense of purpose creep back into his eyes and felt the smallest hope lighten her determination when he said:.

"Jack does not have time for the slow process of law. We need him off the hook now. If he is going to be ill, then he needs to be free of a worry that will make him worse."

She made a small ragged sound, and for a moment closed her eyes. "You understand….." she had run out of words.

He did not reply. Just waited. Finally she said:

"You have a plan. Tell me."

So he did. He told her. He told her about Ellie's reinvention of the correspondence. What he had arranged with Derek Rathbone. About his invitation from Magnussen to be his guest at Jack Smallwood's celebration at the Guild Hall.

What would happen there. And her role in it. Her role and Jack's.

"You can't do that. You really can't." She said it twice. Slowly. Sherlock ignored her both times. "This is not good for you." She said that twice, too. But when he asked her to suggest an alternative plan, she could not.

"This will work," he insisted. "It will be swift. It will stop Magnussen dead as far as Jack is concerned. Probably Mycroft too."

"But what about you?"

He ignored that question too.

"And Mycroft? Does he know? Will you tell him?"

The blank cold eyes gave her the answer even she baulked at.

"You will not warn him. You will not." Sherlock's power reached across the space between them and stopped her breathing; even for a woman who wielded huge power herself, made life and death decisions in her own right, affected countries and controls.

"Are you sure? Really sure?"

"The decision is made. Live with it."

The lemonade ran out then. So he left.

o0o0o0o

Things moved swiftly after that. A paper bag (that had contained a sausage roll, he deduced easily) pushed through the letterbox of 221B had scrawled on it:

 _South Dock drop. Monday 3am. Clarissa_

Deeza deserved another twenty quid. Lestrade needed valium.

"How in God's name did you find this out, Sherlock? We've been skirting round these two for years. Clever little buggers with a charmed life, normally."

"Not this time," said the consulting detective with grim determination.

"OK, then. Wanna come with us? See the raid?"

"Oh, yes."

And it all happened at the speed of light.

South Dock in Rotherhithe is one of the least known docks still in existence in London. Yet has a large marina, boatyard and a cherished redevelopment of feature housing; a proper, almost rural, community in the centre of the city. A waterside place where criminality would barely be expected. But with enough pleasure shipping in and out through it's lock to the Thames - yachts, houseboats, Humber keels, Dutch barges and all - to draw little if any attention.

The _Clarissa_ was a Forties Dutch barge; handsome, sturdy and with large capacity. Both vessel and situation were an inspired choice for shifting contraband.

Sherlock cancelled his Sunday afternoon in the park with Janine; he had things to do as he, Donovan and Lestrade checked the venue. _Clarissa's_ mooringberth was empty as she was out in open water. Gathering up whatever was this week's cargo? Easy enough to rendezvous with a coaster or something larger out in the Thames estuary: Sherlock had seen the casual skill of regular sailors on England's coastal waters. How little coasters would race alongside each other through choppy seas as people on different boats chatted, exchanged newspapers and sandwiches, even mugs of tea, across gaps from vessel to vessel.

Negotiated difficult tides, shifting sands, the sunken warship, it's three masts above the water and still laden with explosives, that sat on the Nore sandbank near Sheerness, raced channels and sand spits and generally used the dangerous waterways as if they were an urban high street. Exchanging contraband would be easy in the circumstances.

Lestrade organised the raid; checked some background, found the _Clarissa_ \- registered to Dean Dixon Carr - was out of the dock on Fridays and returned every Monday. Regular as clockwork.

Family connections living along the lower reaches of the Thames, the occasional weekend charter, fishing weekends, family trips. All excuses so well established it was a routine assumed to be totally innocent.

So the coastguard was alerted to keep an eye on the distinctive black and green livery, and alerted New Scotland Yard when spotted heading back up river. Lestrade had a team in place within the half hour, and had men hidden in cars, vans and other boats when the Clarissa puttered slowly back onto her mooring.

Sherlock was with Donovan and Lestrade, out of sight in the back of a Transit van that claimed to belong to Sky Blue Catering when the vessel docked; a warm moonlit night, the world silent at 3am.

Two men emerged from _Clarissa_ carrying heavy parcels, walking silently along the pontoon to the quayside and towards aa large SUV with covered rear. Both Mark and Marie Dixon Carr emerged from the front of the SUV, and took the parcels to the back.

The police watched and only pounced when the last bundle was packed into the vehicle. And then on Lestrade's command, all hell let loose.

Sherlock was out of the van like a greyhound from the traps, his eyes set on Marie Dixon Carr. "She's _mine_ , Lestrade. Karma," he had said, and Lestrade had frowned, opened his mouth, but held back the question.

He ran forward, eyes fixed on his target. She took in the scene - the lights, the shouting, guns being brandished, the entrance to the dock barred by police vehicles, her brother slow and ungainly with his plaster cast, and so apprehended easily by two policemen - and she made a break for it, spinning round and running back towards _Clarissa_ , the pontoon bouncing under her fast hard steps.

He was after her, calling her name.

"Marie! You can't escape!"

She flickered a look back over her shoulder at him. Ran and dived straight into the water. He was out of his jacket, dropping it on the planking, cutting into the water a scant second behind her.

His swift front crawl overtook her, and he reached forward to grab her legs. She twisted in his grasp and thrashed like a cat, swirled around him, somehow got her feet onto his shoulders and pushed down hard.

He managed to suck a breath before being forced down to the bottom of the dock as she struggled to keep him there beneath her, to drown him, no holds barred in her fury and desperation.

Eyes open in the water, his feet touched bottom and he bent and braced his knees, pushed fiercely back up through the silt. Turning as he rose, he clutched wildly at whatever was in the water with him and caught an ankle. Pulled hard downwards, saw her face inches from his in the murk.

Reached for a handful of hair, yanked it hard, dragged her, fighting and contorting, to the side.

His head broke the surface, and he shouted for help, heard running footsteps. Dragged the blonde haired girl to the side, lifted her onto the edge of the decking despite her struggles, and into the hands of Sgt Sally Donovan.

"Cuff…." he began.

Half in, half out of the water, he watched helpless as the girl squatted down as soon as both feet touched the decking to then jolt upwards, her heel rising into a powerful kick that took Donovan in the face.

Sally Donovan's catapulting body hit Sherlock Holmes full in the chest and took them both into the water. And by the time Sherlock had brought them both back to the side, Marie Dixon Carr had disappeared in the melee. And neither Sherlock nor six other policemen could find her.

He beat his fist on the side of the Transit van in frustration.

"We'll get her, Sherlock," Lestrade assured.

"Not soon enough, Lestrade. Not soon enough."

His words proved to be a dark prediction of the future.

TO BE CONTINUED….

 **Author's notes:**

A BLT sandwich is a one of the most popular for eating on the move. It stands for Bacon, Lettuce and Tomato - in case there is anyone who doesn't know!

If you ever get the chance to take a journey up the Thames from the mouth of the estuary to Tower Bridge - do it. It is a tremendous trip, full of variety and rich history. And simply to pass under Tower Bridge on the Thames is an experience in itself. You will not believe how swiftly those huge Victorian bascules shift to snap the bridge open and closed to stop the traffic for as little time as possible.

The sunken warship full of explosives, it's three masts always exposed above the waterline whatever the state of the tide, is the American liberty ship the SS Richard Montgomery, which dragged it's anchor and got stuck on the sandbank, broke it's back and sank, laden with 1,400 tonnes of armaments, in 1944. The armaments are still on board, too dangerous to attempt to offload, and are regularly checked by divers or sonar for safety every year.


	15. Chapter 15

Things We Lost In The Flames

 **Note:**

There are strong aspects of assault and sexual attack in this chapter that are vital in response to both canon and to plot; both mine and Moffat and Gatiss's baseline plot from _Sherlock: Series 3,_ _His Last Vow._

These are in accordance with the story so far. The warning has been made. If you don't like this sort of thing, or feel it has no place for you in the narrative, then don't read it.

Chapter 15: …"Never be the same again…"

The car arrived precisely on time. And Sherlock Holmes watched it glide to a halt at the pavement directly outside his front door. A black Audi. His soul emptied suddenly onto the floor. Picked itself back up and flexed it's shoulders. Why was he not surprised? A black Audi here. A black Audi at Appledore. A black Audi tearing past Kitty Haig's front door. Such is synchronicity, such is truth.

He could place it now, nudge back a corner of the blanket that covered his memory about what had happened to him at Appledore. An injection had seared into the side of his neck. He had gone down like a tree, body blanked out before brain, and his last recollection had been - _yes_ \- of hands reaching down to haul him off the ground and toss him into the back of the car that had arrived at the gates where he waited, and had come from the house. A black Audi.

And a black Audi with cloned plates had taken the life of Nicholas Haig.

Two errant pieces of the jigsaw had just rolled out from their hiding place under the blanket and slid back into play. His brain wobbled offline for a moment. He took a step back, put a hand out to stabilise himself. Had he really ever expected anything else? Timing was a bit pointed, though; a bit melodramatic. Evidence of a killer? A killer he was about to go and meet? Smile at and be sociable to. And more?

Calm down, dammit. A black Audi has arrived at his doorstep. This time - for what? To transit a journey from A to B. Was hardly about to take him to his own death or destruction. Nevertheless, a flare of panic rose and was quelled.

Starve it. He was being imaginative. Emotional. Fearful for fear's sake. Pathetic. Death did not come to central London in a car with a liveried chauffeur, when a gilt edged place setting was at that moment sitting on a table waiting for him at the Guild Hall. And neither was the chauffeur at his door a man with a silver pony tail….

He reluctantly released the edge of curtain he found he was clutching, straightened his jacket, and walked down the stairs. His feet felt as if they were floating just off the ground. He stopped for a moment, still on his safe side of the front door. Leant against the wall, shuddered a deep breath and gathered courage. Just as he had done before leaving to face Moriarty at the Old Bailey.

But this time there was no John Watson at his side to soothe and protect and support. This time, this even more momentous time, he had to do this thing alone. Oh, well. The practise would be good. Got to learn to go back to how things had been before John. Buckle on new armour.

He pushed off the wall and emerged into the world from his eyrie. The chauffeur opened the rear door for him, and Sherlock stepped inside into a small contained universe.

Something cold passed through him as he settled into the back seat of the Audi and took the short drive to Gresham Street, to the building that is the very heartbeat of London life. Had he travelled in this very car before? Had he slumped unconscious on this very back seat? And if so, why was there no image of him impressed into the leather? Why did he still not properly remember? No matter. It would make no difference.

Something would happen tonight. He knew it because he was manipulating it. Something which would throw open the Magnussen case; and it would be him alone throwing the curve ball that would mean a home run or dismissal. With the support of others, witting and unwitting.

It would all come down to who would lead, and how he would lead. How he would act and react. And how Magnussen responded. What he did in response to that. Responses that may have to be urgent, naked….stepping back from seeming advantage to draw back before delivering a roundhouse right. Whatever happened tonight, he was ready.

The itch at the back of his brain was of Marie Dixon Carr. Lestrade had been confident they would find her within hours. But it was two days now, and there was no sign.

"We'll get her, Sherlock. Don't worry. Customs and Excise and forensics are going through the Il Rondo with several fine tooth combs. The club's license has been suspended; we're finding watered booze, short measures, hygiene contraventions, illegals employed, two lots of accounts. With the smuggling and anything else we can find, those two will go down for a good long time.

"And if we get them no other way, we can do the Al Capone thing; get them locked up for tax avoidance!"

They had both laughed then, but Sherlock Holmes was not reassured. The girl was dangerous. And on the loose.

But now there were other things to do. Just as dangerous, just as vital. All he needed was the courage and the commitment. This danger to meet and face down all alone.

The chauffeur offered no conversation, for which Sherlock was grateful. Which meant he was able to step from the car concentrated and prepared.

A doorman ushered him into the C14th building, where the event was being held in the west crypt. Sherlock knew his way, and once in the stone vaulted hall stood and looked round for Magnussen.

The taller and older man detached himself from a small group of people and drifted to his side.

"So. You came. And what a poster boy you are for English evening dress…."

He paused three steps away, his hands that had been raised in greeting now stilled in mid air.

"You look like a prince, Mr Holmes. The handsome epitome of high class English breeding and good tailoring."

The Dane smiled and put out one hand to touch a sleeve, almost as if he thought what stood before him was merely a beautiful mirage and he needed proof it was not.

"This is just formal evening dress," Sherlock frowned in reaction to the lavish praise. "And merely what I look like when I wear it. But I am sure my tailor would be delighted at your compliment, so thank you."

He made a deep bow, his voice cool and collected, even though he knew he looked good and always felt more confident and self aware in such clothing. The suit had been made to measure years ago and been worth the investment. His weight rarely changed, and his long slim frame suited the elegant black tail coat, the high waisted black tailored trousers with the double satin banding and braces, worn with a white bow tie, white crisp starched marcella pique cotton shirt, white double breasted waistcoat and black patent shoes.

For effect he favoured the little informality of the white silk scarf worn on it's own around his neck, but had left Baker Street without the black cape, unnecessary in summer and also now considered somewhat outmoded as a style statement. With his hair disciplined severely straight back from his forehead with old fashioned pomade instead of the usual loose curls surrounding it, he was transformed: hawk like handsome, formal and poised. He looked older, untouchable, implacable. He looked, he thought, very much like himself.

But to Magnussen the look of classic monochrome elegance that was Sherlock this evening was electric. He could not take his eyes off him, and Sherlock had to affect not to notice.

"I am glad I asked you to come with me tonight," Magnussen said finally, smiling and making it sound like a date. Sherlock dipped his head in acknowledgement and they moved further into the crypt, which was filled with gilt tables covered in white napery, surrounded by ghost chairs, tall columns of white roses on every table, the room full of people and chatter and good humour.

Only too aware of the hand now proprietarily under his elbow, Sherlock blanked out the intrusion with information.

"Perhaps you have not been here before? These crypts are the oldest and largest in London," he began in best tourist guide mode. "The building itself dates back to Roman times, this part from Edward the Confessor - that's pre Battle of Hastings."

Magnussen was listening, nodding, a half smile on his lips.

"This particular crypt was closed after the old Great Hall above collapsed in on it during the Great Fire of 1666; was only restored and reopened in 1973. "

"Hmmn," murmured Magnussen, looking round. "I see your brother is here."

"And?" Sherlock asked, uninterested.

As if the words flipped a switch, the crowd parted and Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes found themselves looking directly at each other. Neither brother reacted or acknowledged each other's presence, despite the eye contact, which remained unwavering yet without register.

"No love lost there, I see, Mr Holmes?"

"Not a word I identify with." was the remote reply. "And my brother has more than once described himself as my arch enemy. I wouldn't argue with that."

And Magnussen smiled and patted Sherlock's hand

They made their way to their seats, and the toastmaster called the room to order, beginning the evening with a short welcome, the saying of grace, an announcement of the order of the evening.

If Magnussen was surprised at the number of people his companion knew with such a very English formalised familiarity at that event, he kept it to himself. Merely stayed close to Sherlock's side as if the younger man was his protégé, his acolyte. Ate the five course meal, participated smoothly as table partners made polite conversation with him, but then gracefully turned and discussed all manner of things with Sherlock, from tips for the next Epsom race meeting, the state of the international diamond market, national security and the Korean peace talks.

Magnussen listened and learnt. He was content to sit back and to watch and enjoy how the young man at his side could observe social graces with ease and style when he chose to, yet also exhibit his intelligence, broad knowledge, and a rarely demonstrated diplomacy. Attributes that made him appear both charming and charismatic.

So Magnussen watched and wondered about the young man at his side; as, he felt, so many other people had also wondered before him. And pondered his skills, his character and his availability.

Saw his own targets - Lord and Lady Smallwood - greet them both with pleasant formality and was quietly, internally, amused by that.

The speeches and the orations that followed praised Lord Smallwood and his contributions to business, diplomacy, politics, industry and charity. They were very worthy and very boring, and Magnussen switched off with a cool smile on his face and planned future ploys and manipulations in his head.

He was so very aware of the man sitting next to him. So he kept glancing at, and conversing with, Sherlock Holmes. He could not understand the consulting detective's apparent interest and enjoyment in such a worthy yet boringly predictable event. Magnussen was only attending because - apart from twisting the tail of the Smallwoods - it gave an opportunity to be with the younger man in his own milieu, to see what occurred, and what façade Sherlock Holmes presented in the formality of his own very English and influential world.

A world Magnussen knew he could never fully inhabit himself, even as a self made billionaire businessman, nor would ever be truly welcome in. As a foreigner. But Sherlock Holmes was different; recognised, accepted, appreciated. And apparently and surprisingly paying rapt attention to the speeches, laughing politely and applauding at the right times.

Never had he experienced such a singular young man as this, Magnussen realised, a younger man so much like himself, but perhaps even more enigmatic - hyper intelligent, cold, objective, without apparent emotion. A man also seemingly without baggage, without levers. Except the brother. Surely normal brothers were not as averse to each other as these two appeared to be? He needed to see for himself. Register levels of leverage that may be available…..

Magnussen observed, and would allow himself hope as far as Sherlock Holmes was concerned. And try to move forward, edge closer, slowly and without raising alarm in his prey.

At the end of the platitudes of the evening, when Jack Smallwood made his own appreciative speech and was formally presented with an early Victorian silver desk set featuring St George killing his dragon, the Smallwood company secretary Derek Rathbone announced the start of the informal part of the evening: music and dancing, and the story of Lord Smallwood's life and career on the display boards around the room; and the announcement that Lord and Lady Smallwood "would mingle" with their guests.

"Mingle!" huffed an amused echo from Sherlock Holmes, and Magnussen leant towards him, sharing the joke, putting a hand on his arm.

"Shall we 'mingle'?" Sherlock Holmes asked with formality, standing, gesturing for Magnussen to precede him and, like the other guests, they took flutes of champagne as offered beyond the toasts, and worked the room.

A broken string quartet playing Bach and Brahms gave a composed and relaxed ambience to the gathering, and Sherlock followed Magnussen as the man perused the displays, from Jack Smallwood's first school report ("John must learn to chatter less and work more…..") Magnussen focussed on the display boards, on learning his target. Sherlock hoped Rathbone has kept his word and posted the important yet so inconsequential seeming correspondence of the post cards that created their own alternative universe between Jack and Ellie, in a quiet corner. A quiet spot would be best for what he had planned.

Sherlock was quiet, watchful, soft footed, apparently relaxed. He too appeared absorbed in the displays, although there was, in truth, very little he did not know about Jack Smallwood already.

He was aware of Lady Smallwood slanting cautious looks in his direction, standing at her husband's side as the centre of attention. Gracious, smiling, but troubled when her gaze fell upon him. They did not speak - because they had nothing to say - and Sherlock had no wish to draw attention to himself as yet. He would do that soon enough.

Like the other guests, Magnussen drifted from board to board, exchanging brief conversations. In a far shadowy corner was the one board that counted; Ellie Driscoll's youthful postcards and their replies. A group of people moved away, and Magnussen and Sherlock took their place. A quiet corner, away from the main crowd. Perfect.

Suddenly the Dane's concentration focussed down harder, sharpened. He leant into the board and skimmed his fingertips over the postcards pinned there. They seemed pleasant yet trite, but showed an arc of friendliness and care that seemed typical of Jack Smallwood and the response of other people to him. At the bottom sat a modern postcard with a posed formal portrait of Ellie and Ari Sondersun on it, and a brief note:

" _Lord Smallwood encouraged a bratty teenager to become the woman I now am. How lucky I was! My husband and I send all our best wishes. Ellie Sondersun (nee Driscoll)"_

Magnussen looked at this with something between shock and venom.

"No. This is not right," his words were muttered so quietly only Sherlock heard them. "That is not right. It is not true."

"Something wrong?" Sherlock enquired with polite and distant concern.

"Yes. This. This is wrong. Lies."

"Really? It all looks perfectly fine to me. Trivial, but fine. How would you know?"

"I just DO!"

He turned quickly and snarled at Sherlock, head down and forward like a questing dog, eyes bright. The usual slightly amused detachment annihilated. His hands clasped onto Sherlock's arms. Sherlock looked into those burning eyes and then away. Over his head he saw Jack Smallwood watching, holding his breath but otherwise registering no reaction. Lady Smallwood was no longer at his side.

"Please do not stress yourself," Sherlock soothed, as ineffectually as he could manage.

"I am not stressed. I am ANGRY!"

Sherlock had not expected such anger, nor to see it exhibited. To have your blackmail evidence made void is one thing. To be so upset by it is something else. Sherlock tried a soothing noise, a sympathetic dip of his head that just stoked the anger. Tried not to smile at the success of the ruse; of a victim getting her own back. Of teaching Magnussen how to taste lies for himself.

Magnussen made a low sound in his throat. And then a voice interrupted the intensity of the moment.

" Good evening. Trying your hand at friendship? You really must stop inflicting yourself on people. Good evening, Charles, do please avoid my little brother like the pl….."

Sherlock Holmes reacted.

 _Perfect timing, brother dear! I'll never get another chance at this! Take 'sorry' as read…._

His left arm rose in a short canon blow, a convulsive and fierce jerk of his forearm, rising from the elbow clamped to his side, a fisted blow of immense power and speed and almost invisible to any observer, so controlled and short in motion was it.

Mycroft Holmes fell back as if kicked by a horse and hit the ground with a crash, his head narrowly missing the edge of a table.

The Dane looked down at him, surprise and undisguised horror on his face. Then looked swiftly back up to the man's younger brother with uncomprehending shock. No pretence now, shocked out of his normal coolness.

Sherlock Holmes's expression remained quite calm, although there was a curl of distaste on his lips. He did not offer to help his brother to his feet or apologise as Mycroft Holmes blinked hard with shock and pain and started to inelegantly scrabble back to his feet from the floor.

"Leave us alone, Mycroft. My friend and myself are nothing to you."

Sherlock Holmes' hands clenched as other hands came forward to help Mycroft Holmes to his feet. Who looked surprised, stunned, fingered the side of his face where the blow struck. He did not take his eyes off his younger brother throughout, but he did not speak.

Dark blues eyes narrowed, however, the expression becoming fierce, dangerous, the lips thinning.

"Mr Holmes!" The voice was peremptory, and both Holmes brothers turned.

Lady Smallwood stood between them, tiny between three tall and dominant men, her hands raised and slightly apart as if to fend one off from the other.

"Mycroft. Are you quite all right?"

"Yes. Thank you, Lady Smallwood. Just another aspect of suffering my unstable little brother. It is a cross I have to bear."

Mycroft's voice came from somewhere around knee level as he paused to speak. His face was quite calm and his voice scornfully dismissive. No-one seemed to notice Magnussen or remember his outburst.

"Mr Holmes. Do you have any excuse for your appalling behaviour?"

She was without doubt very, very angry. Sherlock smiled a little, tilting his head in amusement, shrugged. He was unmoved and unapologetic.

"He annoys me. He always does." The attitude and the light brittle tone was as offensive as the blow.

Mycroft got to his feet and flicked invisible dust from his trousers and sleeves. Sighed.

"It is of no matter. And less surprise."

"It does indeed matter, Mycroft, This is disgraceful behaviour."

Lady Smallwood turned to Magnussen and made a formal inclination of her head.

"I apologise on behalf of my…..guest," she addressed him, calm and formal. " I hope you can forgive us?"

Magnussen made a small dismissive gesture with one hand, flickered a glance at Sherlock, who had made what looked like a protective step towards him.

"It is of no matter, dear lady. But perhaps a little amusing?"

Lady Smallwood blushed and nodded as if in thanks for his diplomacy. Moved closer to Sherlock, deep into his personal space, and spoke directly up into his face.

"You have ruined my husband's evening. I hope you are proud of yourself. You were a horrid little boy and you are just as horrid as an adult. Get out."

The smile shocked off Sherlock's face and he stumbled back a little; put a hand on Magnussen's arm as if to steady himself. He turned pale, shaking gently but visibly.

"Thank God most of the people here have not seen what you have done. But you will make apology to my husband on your way out and attract no more attention to yourself as you do so. Now go."

She stared the younger man down. He shuddered a deep breath, drew himself upright, heels together, hands at his sides, snapped his head down and forward into a sharp deeply formal bow.

 _Public school manners. Proper behaviours. Go away alone. Take the gun quietly to the library…_

"My apologies, Lady Smallwood: Mr Magnussen. Oh, and to you, too Mycroft. Thank you for a delightful evening. Good night."

He turned on his heel, not looking at any of them, and swung away. They remained motionless, watched him speak briefly to Lord Smallwood. Shake his hand, repeat the formal and old fashioned bow. And walk briskly straight out of the door, looking to neither left nor right.

Lady Smallwood released breath she was holding in a long gasp. Braced her shoulders. Continued.

"Your brother is a liability, Mycroft." she observed softly.

"I am only too aware, Lady Smallwood." His voice was resigned, tired of the subject.

He nodded farewell to both his professional colleague and the Danish newspaper magnate who was watching him so closely, and crossed the room; civilised, urbane and impassive as ever.

"Mr Magnussen…." Lady Smallwood turned to the man by his side. "I am aware Mr Holmes the younger came here as your guest, but please do not think his behaviour may impact at all on our opinion of you. You were not to know what a disturbed boy Sherlock was. Clearly can still be."

He patted her hand, smiled down at her, reassuring.

"You are very kind," he purred. "Is this is why he has few friends? His unusual behaviours?"

"But of course. Do excuse me? I need to return to my husband."

She walked away and did not look back. She remained ramrod straight. At the other sideof the room Jack Smallwood took her hand in his own and did not let it go.

o0o0o0o

Out of the main doors at speed, round the corner, into a relative darkness. He had done what he had to. Had then intended to just stride off into the night, walk home as he has done so many times before after an engineered confrontation. But his legs were trembling. The physical and mental reaction to what he had done was….stronger than he had expected.

He had never struck Mycroft before, not as an adult. It had taken all his self command, all his determination, to do so. The blow hurt him; and it had hurt Mycroft. He desperately hoped it would be enough to convince Magnussen that neither brother could be a lever against the other, otherwise it had been a complete waste of time and effort and reputation.

So now he slumped against the hard cool wall. Just for a moment. There was a taste of bile in his mouth. And he needed to stop, rest - _no not rest, he never rested, other people rested -_ gather himself together.

 _That is one of the hardest things I have ever …. The hardest thing. The hardest…_

OUGHHF!

He was slammed back into the wall, air thudding out of his lungs at the unexpected impact. Gasping in surprise and shock.

 _Fool! Fool! Never bend or bow your head. Never stop looking for what's coming. How had he forgotten - neglected - that very first rule of self preservation?_

There was a hand jammed at his throat holding his head back against the wall. And although his eyes were rattling in his head he knew who it was before he was even able to focus. His arms flailed uncontrollably in reaction, his hands captured in an iron grasp, hauled above his head and rasped painfully against the wall. He was captive and weakened.

But somewhere low in his gut was a totally objective glow of achievement and he fought down a smile. Relief and achievement.

 _Magnussen's brakes are off. Good. Now we shall see…_

He breathed. That was all there was to be said for it.

"You….." The word came out as if an explosion, the released air slaking his face.

He squeezed his eyes shut to centre himself, then forced them open again. He was looking into the pale shark's eyes of Charles Augustus Magnussen. Except the older man's eyes were now burning; and Sherlock was not quite sure with what.

"You struck your brother to the ground."

He could hardly get the words out, as they were throttled with something forceful, something rare.

"He deserved it."

Sherlock kept his voice as cool, detached, and as matter of fact as possible while dealing with one strong hand now circling his throat so possessively.

"You did that for me, didn't you? Didn't you? You are quite the most startling….."

"You knew that already."

Magnussen had spots of colour on his cheeks, seemed in the grip of something alien to him - emotion.

"Strange. And fascinating and…."

Magnussen lunged forward. He was taller, had the advantage of speed, of preparation, of intent, the dominant position of free will. Sherlock was pinioned by him.

And waiting.

Sherlock snatched in a breath, and with it he snatched in Magnussen. Whose mouth threw itself clumsily onto Sherlock's. Magnussen froze for a second at the shock of the contact he had initiated, almost as if by actions outside of himself. Jaws and teeth and lips suddenly worked convulsively against those of the consulting detective.

Sherlock felt the Dane's beard grate against the sensitive skin on the edges and inside of his mouth.

Which shocked open to admit Magnussen's tongue and teeth, sharp, hard, clenched, jarring against his. His teeth squeaked in shock at the sharp impact, and then they hurt.

The consulting detective slumped a little, bones and physical tension melting into fugue. These situations hurt more with muscle tension, with tone and fight and hot blood. He knew this and forced all his reactions down. He was not - _he was not -_ going to fight this.

He tasted spit that was not his own and held back revulsion and bile rising and hot waves of disgust that rolled in and back, in and back.

 _I could kill you as you stand here ravaging me. As if you have a right._

 _I could give you a Glasgow Kiss of such power it would break your nose and front teeth, my hard and angry forehead slamming into your evil predator's face._

 _I could twist free and bite into your throat, taste your blood and feel the slippery gloss of puncturing the muscle and gristle of your main artery and have you bleed out over me._

 _I could get my hands free of yours in a second, throttle you to death without pity._

 _Give such a hammer blow to your liver that it would stop functioning._

 _Smash your kidneys so you could not pee for a week without pain._

 _Grab your balls and happily twist them off._

 _Move my hands in your clammy hand - oh, so easily - and lever back and break your fingers without a thought._

 _Scrape my foot down the inside of your shin and strip off the skin, stop you walking for days. I could…_

 _Anger. When am I ever this angry? What is this animal I have become since I came back from the dead?_

"Hmmmn." he gasped against the mouth on his. Then, in a tone of honey dripping with a poison that only he knew was there: "So; is that what you like, Mr Magnussen?"

Magnussen drew back a little, and they both fought for breath. For once, the older man's eyes were showing feelings, and on fire.

Sherlock closed and opened his own grey shuttered eyes in a lazy and languid blink. Shifted his hips a tantalising little against Magnussen's, but still without even trying to free his hands.

Magnussen laughed - a strange throttled sound. Tilted his head and licked the right side of Sherlock's face, a slow slick glide from jaw to temple, which Sherlock leant into. Laughter hummed in the Dane's throat.

 _Well, Lady Smallwood said it felt like rape. And it does. The most obscene rape you could imagine. Perhaps I shall tell her that one day, that I agree; it will make her feel better…_

Magnussen's body was pressed hard against Sherlock's now, and Sherlock felt the twitch against his body of the other man's erection. The taste of bile in his throat was getting worse, harder to keep down.

The hand that had been at his throat now snaked possessively between their two bodies, and Sherlock allowed himself to gasp as if with pleasure, not horror. He tilted his hips and wondered how far this was going to go before he drew back a fist and smashed the face crushed against his.

Magnussen hissed, and claimed Sherlock's mouth again. Teeth that were not his own worried his bottom lip and then bit down hard, without warning.

Despite himself, Sherlock yelped and yanked his head away, tasted his own blood. But the hand surrounding his held him tight and stilled, and the body pushed harder against his and slammed him deeper into the wall.

"You know how to do this. You have done this before."

 _Did he know? Truly know? Or was this just wish fulfilment, just sex talk? Or was it follow through after whatever had happened at Appledore?_

"You intend to pay me for this, then? This little…. rut?" He could not keep the disdain from his voice, but laboured to keep it light, sexually teasing, transactional.

But at this Magnussen rolled his head back and laughed with genuine amusement,

"You are a remarkable man, Mr Holmes. But I am above all other things a businessman , so perhaps you would be happy to take your continued survival as your very reasonable fee?"

"Not really. My life is of little import, Mr Magnussen. You will have to do better than that."

"Ahh…." Magnussen lifted his head in something like triumph, looked Sherlock square in the eyes. "I will make you care, Sherlock. Make you yield. That is the unique challenge of you, is it not? Part of your fascination? Your refusal to allow emotion."

Sherlock slanted a look. Smiled a small evil smile and risked eye contact.

"You should know. If anyone does."

He forced himself to stay slack under Magnussen's hands and to wait for response to his challenge.

"Oh, come. I know you chose to be seen with me tonight. You chose me over your brother. You made yourself a pariah to your peers. Because you were with me. You are not as reluctant as you like to appear. Unless you are you teasing me, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock raised his head. Did not speak, but quirked one side of his mouth into a little smile, opened his lips with a bubble of blood upon them, slowly closed and opened his eyes again. Looked deep into those of the older man without blinking.

 _Take that whichever way you like, Magnussen. Do you want to lick that blood from my mouth? Take me here and now? Relish the danger of sex in a public place? Really!_

 _Really?_

 _But. But. But…..If you don't take your hands off me soon - NOW - I will gouge your eyes out of your head. Or fuck you senseless, fuck you dead, you utter…._

His hands were clenching in Magnussen's grasp, and his normally icy self control was dissolving into revulsion and anger. Magnusson was smiling at him, leaning closer, sensing the crumbling of control, scenting victory.

Then they both froze. For there were footsteps heard, footsteps of two people approaching.

Magnussen looked up suddenly, looked Sherlock straight in the eyes, out staring him. Defying him.

"Come on now, gents. This is no way to behave in public. Move along there, will ya?"

Two community policemen on patrol. Young, bored, vaguely amused at the sight of two men old enough, and well dressed enough, to know better. Two posh gits doing randy traditional upper class bloke stuff. Boring. Demeaning.

Magnussen broke away and offered a polite and social smile, both hands raised in a placatory gesture.

"So sorry, officers. Something of a heated discussion. You know what it's like? After a few glasses of wine and a brandy or three?

"Well, if that's what you think it looks like…." muttered the older and taller policeman. While his colleague simply responded:

"Not our affair, sir. On your way, just cool down."

Sherlock brought his arms down from above his head and put his trembling hands carefully into his jacket pockets. To keep them controlled, stop them defending, attacking. The policemen waited a moment to make sure all was quiet and civilised again. Behaviour fit for human consumption. Then they moved on, unperturbed.

One intense look back into Magnussen's eyes. Saw the lust darkening and deepening them. Then he turned away. He could still feel the wetness of the man's saliva on his cheek cooling in the evening air, taste the blood in his mouth and feel his swollen lip with his tongue.

"I shall be in touch, Mr Holmes." Magnussen was just standing and watching him walk away, almost smiling but not attempting to stop him. Sherlock could see that the older man felt himself to be the victor, the power player. But he also threw out a promise.

"This is not over. And anyway, you owe me an answer. To my proposition, remember?"

Sherlock did not respond. As he walked away he looked back over his shoulder, but did not speak or break stride. And he heard four words follow him, spoken with slow, languorous deliberation.

"I. Shall. Have. You."

He still made no reply or any sign of having heard. Just walked. And was pleased he could still do that.

After two corners he paused to spit what felt like an ocean of blood from inside his mouth. Then he started to run, paused for a moment - then ran faster and faster.

Half a mile later he came to a sudden stop and was violently sick into a road drain.

A black limousine that had been travelling very slowly along New Oxford Street paused as Sherlock sat on the kerb and wiped his face clean with his pocket handkerchief.

He did not notice. Even when the car suddenly accelerated away at speed.

TO BE CONTINUED….

.


	16. Chapter 16

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 16: 'sure as hell have nothing now.'

The door of 221B slammed open and he went straight to the bathroom, stripping off the evening suit as he walked, putting the jacket, waistcoat and trousers onto their hanger (and then hanging all out of the bathroom window on the strut to get the smell of Magnussen off them) and putting his shirt, scarf, knickers and socks straight into the washing machine and switching it on.

The shower wrenched on at full force, and he stood under the numbing spray for longer than necessary for cleanliness, his face turned up into the spray, eyes closed, mouth open to sluice his tongue and teeth again and again before they even began to taste clean.

Finally he turned the water off and just slumped, spent, braced with one arm against the wall. He was not going to have a meltdown, he most definitely was not. He was too angry. But that had been hard, even for him.

He padded through to his bedroom, not bothering to turn on lights. He had a T shirt and pyjama bottoms in hand ready to put on when a voice spoke very quietly but firmly behind him:

"So what was all that about?"

He did not turn, did not want to reveal how he had been shocked into stillness.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was low, resigned, unsurprised.

"Making sure that if you are going to bed naked in your own bedroom you are going to be doing so alone."

The tone of voice was archly almost humorous, but an implacable determination underlined the words.

"Not your business."

"Ordinarily, I agree. If you do become so ordinary that you require sex I really do not want to know. Only not with Magnussen, please."

The bedside light clicked on to show Mycroft Holmes sitting at apparent ease in the Lloyd Loom chair by the bed, one elegantly evening dressed leg crossed over the other, elbows rested on the chair arms and hands steepled before his face as if in parody of his younger brother's habitual thinking stance.

Despite the relaxed pose his face was set in harsh lines and his eyes saw everything.

"You now have a split lip you did not have when you left the West Crypt. What happened, brother dear? A slap from Magnussen? Some rough trade in a back alley?"

"Don't be absurd."

Sherlock Holmes slowly and collectedly put on his garments and added the brown silk dressing gown.

"Well, it's been frightfully nice seeing you and everything, Mycroft. But as you can see, I am home safe and sound and all on my own. So off you pop."

Mycroft Holmes grimaced, probably at the colloquialism, but did not move.

"I think I merit an explanation if not an apology." He hissed in a breath and asked, almost lightly: "Tell me why you hit me Sherlock? Why you hit me in public?"

"Well, in private would hardly have had the same impact, now would it?"

Sherlock Holmes slipped into his bed as if his brother was not there. Tucked the dressing gown and the duvet around him and settled on his side, facing away from Mycroft.

"Goodnight."

For a moment there was quiet and stillness. Until Mycroft Holmes surged to his feet, bent over the bed and swept the duvet off the slight form curled up beneath it.

"Sherlock!"

"I was giving in to the temptation of a lifetime, if you must know." He did not move from his foetal position, curled up tight as he was. And he did not open his eyes.

"Sherlock?"

He risked a look up into the set face and angry eyes of his brother. Closed his own again and put the heels of both hands to his forehead. Hiding his own face, pushing his brother out of his line of sight.

"Can we just leave this? I don't feel very well."

"You don't get out of this by turning into a whining child. What was tonight about?"

"A case. Just a case. I told you….."

"It must be one hell of a case to justify such behaviour."

"It is. Look, I can't tell you - client confidentiality and all that - but it was a matter of life or death."

"So where do I come in the equation?"

"You make the most lovely red herring, brother dear. Matches your hair. Or do I mean your eyes?"

 _Your life and death! I am trying to save your life, you dimwit. I am trying to take you off the front line. Drop you back into a place of safety. Let me just do this. Just let me. For a change. Don't fuss and probe and harangue….._

"Are you on something?"

"Not yet."

"Why Magnussen?"

"Why not?"

"Sherlock! Will you please….."

"Take this seriously? I am doing, Mycroft. Oh, I really am."

He was suddenly unbearably tired. His vision fracturing and strange incidental sounds becoming magnified: the washing machine draining down the pipe sounded like an artillery battery. Mrs Hudson's radio drifting up from her kitchen window sounded like an ill tuned tannoy. The blackbird singing outside the room in the time distorting glow of the streetlamp was really a machine gun…..

 _It is just reaction! Just reaction. Zone it out!_

"Sorry, Mycroft. One day I will explain. Just not yet."

The older brother folded down over the younger and took his wrists in a firm grip.

"Do not deal with Magnussen. He does not play nicely. Put him down."

This was not what Sherlock wanted to hear.

"Please calm yourself. I only met him a couple of weeks ago, just incidental to other matters. We spoke. He has offered me some consulting work, that's all. We needed to discuss…."

"You do not need to work for this man. Nor the money Magnussen will pay you. Or is he into payment in kind?"

"Don't sound so suspicious. You have a dirty mind. Have I ever told you that?"

"This evening he was fawning upon you. Treating you as if you were his property." he paused, but Sherlock did not deny his words. Simply ignored them." So how did you get the split lip?"

"I walked into a door…."

"What, another one? You are becoming very careless about doors."

"That's because I like them shut. Preferably behind me. Close mine when you go."

Mycroft Holmes stared down at his brother for a long time. But Sherlock kept his eyes closed, intent on hovering towards the edge of sleep. Or appearing to be.

"Have nothing to do with Charles Augustus Magnussen. Do not make me order you."

"…like to see you try…"

Mycroft sighed, then slowly pulled the duvet carefully up over his brother. Despite the warm evening, he also pulled up the heavy Welsh tweed blanket from across the end of the bed as well.

"It you are going to have a meltdown, stay warm. It helps. Get Mrs Hudson to call me if you need anything."

"Cocaine and chocolate cake," came the indistinct voice.

"Do you - need me to stay?" The question was almost hesitant.

"No."

"Can I - do anything?"

"You have already done it. Now you should leave me alone."

Mycroft Holmes opened the bedroom door. Hesitated as he passed through it, just in time to hear a very quiet: "Thank you, Myc." He made no reply, but closed the door softly behind him as he left. Not reassured, but no longer distressed.

Would have been even less assured if he had seen his brother leap from his bed, grab his telephone as soon as he heard the outside door close.

ON

CONTACTS

SEND

SEND ALL

 **9.47pm: to: Lestrade; Janine; Donovan; Molly; K Haig;**

 **Away a few days. SH**

SEND

DELETE

Well. It was the truth.

Near enough.

He ghosted into the sitting room and lifted the loose floor board under the left hand window, in the cache where he kept the sawn off shotgun. Took out the large Victorian mahogany glove box with it's a rubber strap, wrapped pre-sterilised syringes and vials.

Took all back to bed with him and greeted an old friend.

o0o0o0o

"Mrs Hudson, it really is better if you just ignore me, you know. Just because I don't leave the flat for three days is of no more concern than the fact I have no milk in, either. I can just drink water. Or tea without. Well, not without water, obviously."

The words came out at machine gun speed and seemingly without the need to draw breath. She tilted him a look full of understanding but also a great deal of frustration.

"And you don't need to clean. I haven't gone anywhere, or moved at all from this bed for the last three days either, so I don't think the fairies have been through in their wellies and made everywhere mucky. Although they should really have been through sprinkling fairy dust. I can see dust motes. Are they the same thing? Can't do anything with them - the rising cloud of dead skin we all carry with us and shed regardless. Did you know that, Hudders?

"And it's OK, don't look so worried. 'Cos nobody knows I'm here. They think I am off working somewhere. Where? Oh, anywhere will do. How about Little Snoring? That seems appropriate. Or Flash, perhaps. What about Idle? Or Grime? English place names are such a rich treasure trove, don't you think? Just needed to zone out, get a bit of space in my head. Too many people yattering at me. Like crossed wires in an old fashioned telephone exchange. Was that a Marx Brothers film? Duck Soup? Can't remember. Yuk, always sounds nasty that, a bit greasy I should think…."

"Shut up, Sherlock. I'm not listening. " Martha Hudson propped an arm on the vacuum cleaner she had just raced around his bedroom, and thrown open the window. "Smells like a drugs den in here, young man, and I should know. Cartels and all. What have you been using?"

"Not a thing. This is my natural exuberance."

"You have - and you just said it yourself - been in bed for three days."

"Did I? Have I?"

He snatched the corner of duvet that was still within reach to cover himself up again, but his landlady who is definitely not his housekeeper snatched it back and rolled the whole thing off the end of the bed.

"Get UP, you idle tenant, you. You need a shower and a shave and your bed needs changing. I shall have breakfast ready for you in half an hour, and if you are not downstairs to eat it, I shall come in and shove it down your throat."

She tapped the inside of one arm significantly, but made no comment about what she saw there.

"Being a bit pro-active for an elderly landlady, don't you think?"

"With good cause!"

She flounced away. He dropped back onto the pillows. The exchange had exhausted him.

He knew he was going to have to re-enter the world at some point, and Mrs Hudson never left him alone for more than three days. If he didn't move now her next step would be to phone Mycroft, and that was never a good idea.

The cocaine had broken the cycle of not sleeping, not eating, of pushing the brain and body further each day in his attempts to solve this case. He hadn't used for months - or was it weeks? Oh, who cared?- and the euphoria the drug brought on, while it brought it on, was an antidote to - well - everything, really. Weddings, speeches, solving murders, loneliness, blackmail, worry, Magnusson - everything.

For three days the curtains and blinds in 221B were closed and neither a person nor a single shaft of daylight entered the flat. Sherlock was in hibernation mode. This was far from the first time he had attempted to die by inertia; not eating, drinking, sleeping, thinking, moving. Trying to breathe slower and slower until he just stopped.

Never been able to quite manage the last bit, however hard he tried. So eventually he had to get up and keep on keeping on. Even if his very heart and soul protested at that….and that was mainly because he still denied either and both actually existed as far as he was concerned. He had only been recharging the batteries, he argued to himself. Trying to play catch up and align his body with his brain.

So he finally dragged himself to the bathroom and showered and shaved, and put on pyjamas and his blue dressing gown to look presentable if not respectable. And slumped down the stairs to Mrs Hudson's kitchen on his bare feet.

To tempt his appetite she had smoked salmon and scrambled eggs waiting, a rack of toast and a full pint mug of builder's tea. He sat down and looked at both for a full minute trying to find the resolve and energy to eat before 'digging in' as he was sharply told to do.

She sat and watched him for a moment from her side of the Formica topped table, but he wasn't making conversation with her, so she made a start for them both.

"John and Mary are back today."

"I am aware."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Are you going round to see them?"

He looked up at her and made a show of chewing so he could not politely reply with a mouthful of food, vaguely waved his cutlery a bit as a substitute; although talking around food never normally bothered him. Eventually her set expression and unmoving eyes made him answer as briefly as possible:

"No."

She made a small angry noise and waved a phone at him. His phone.

"Since you dropped out of your life three days ago, there have been seven texts on your phone from John. You have not replied to any of them."

"That's because I haven't read them"

"I'll read them out for you," she said firmly. And did so.

" **Home tomorrow. See you soon? JW**

 **Is it still raining in London? Bet it's colder than here. Is it? Back in 20 hours JW**

 **Will miss the sun but glad to be home. See you later? J &M**

 **Hey, the house is still standing. Couldn't get Mary to carry me over the threshold, though. You should have been here to see her try! J &MW**

 **If we are not here when you come round, just out to get groceries. Back by 4 JW**

 **Is your phone broke? Or are you having a really long lie-in? JW**

 **Don't sulk, Sherlock. We'd love to see you. Get all back to normal. Mary x"**

"How very…domestic," he muttered, knowing Mrs Hudson expected him to say something; anything.

"What shall I text back for you?"

"Nothing."

"Sherlock! It is terribly bad manners to ignore seven texts like that."

"Never mind the thirty nine others since they have been away," he grumbled.

When he looked up she was glaring at him with little hurt eyes and a downturned mouth, just as he had expected, and he pulled a face back at her.

"John is in a new life now, with Mary. He doesn't live here any more. I am ignoring him to make sure he gets on with that new life. He'll thank me in the end."

"Oh, Sherlock. You are such a silly boy sometimes. Cutting your nose off to spite your face. John loves you. And so does Mary."

"More fools them."

"Is that what this has been about? Hiding away for the past three days? Avoiding John and Mary?"

"No. Just very tired. Overworked a bit." He admitted, and paused, looked across and met her eyes. "Could feel a meltdown coming on; managed to shove it away."

"Why didn't you say something, you silly boy. I could have helped."

"No-one can help, Mrs Hudson. We've had this conversation before; nothing changes. Best you just not know."

She stood up, moved towards him, gave him an awkward but fierce little hug. He tried not to recoil or be angry with her, but had to keep his eyes down so she could not see what he was thinking. He didn't like her turning her insight or care in his direction. It disturbed him to be soothed or reassured. Or to even think anyone would consider he needed it.

"Does Mycroft know?"

"Yes. Thankfully he left me to it."

"And have you used up your stash of coke now?"

"Yes, thank you. Until the next time. Unless you have some more down here for me?"

She smacked his hand then, and moved away to the sink to attack the eggy saucepan instead.

"Do not try to alienate me, young man. It is not going to work!"

He patted her shoulder and dropped a kiss on her cheek before going back upstairs. But he wandered aimlessly about the flat, unable to settle.

Always when he stepped out of the world like this for a time and then returned to it he felt guilty, unbalanced, something other, and with something missing. As if the gears had refused to mesh, the brain refused to perform, and was jolting into a return to life and function.

Three days. And did he feel any better? No, he did not. But he had needed to stop. And he knew he would never stop just for himself. He had needed to stop and remove himself from Magnussen's attentions - absence to make the heart grow fonder, to stop things escalating far too fast, perhaps. To avoid Mycroft, who was becoming suspicious. And to sidestep Lady Smallwood, who was becoming antagonistic in response to impotent anger at her untypical need for assistance. So only with the help of a very old friend had he been able to take the break he so desperately needed….and to tune out his brain screaming at him….

He was looking aimlessly into the fridge wondering what Mrs Hudson would be putting into it next and if he really cared, when his phone rang. Frowned when the ident revealed itself not to be John Watson's number but Speedy's café next door.

"Mr Sherlock, sir?" The voice at the other end was familiar. "It is Mr Chatterjee from downstairs, Mr Sherlock."

"Hello, Ram. What can I do for you?"

"Nothing for me, sir, thank you. I have a gentleman here who wishes to see you but lacks the confidence to come upstairs and introduce himself."

"Does he have a name?"

"He says it is Fredrik."

"Send him up, Ram. I'm in 221B and happy to see him."

"Thank you, Sherlock, sir."

The light step on the stair arrived quiet and cautious, and Sherlock moved onto the landing to greet Fredrik Sondersun.

Today the Danish military diplomat was dressed in a sharp dark suit and carried a briefcase. He looked cool, handsome, and careful.

"A pleasant surprise, Fredrik," Sherlock greets him. "Not a problem, I trust?"

"Not a problem this time. There's not always a problem."

They shook hands and Sherlock gestured his visitor into his armchair.

"You look very different as yourself, Mr Holmes," the visitor grinned at him after a long moment's assessment.

"Almost an improvement," Sherlock agreed. "So what can I do for you?"

Fredrik Sondersun gave a secret little smile and burrowed into his briefcase, emerging with a plain silver envelope.

"I am over here for a couple of liaison meetings in Whitehall. Wasn't sure I would have time to see you personally But I wanted to stop off with this if I had the chance. To give this to you myself," he said and handed it over.

Sherlock opened it with a frown, and then nodded thoughtfully when he read the contents.

"Congratulations. So when did you and Piet decide on this?"

"After your visit to Copenhagen, of course. Talking to you made us realise we were just living day to day, it was time we stood up as ourselves, now and forever. Time we declared who we are and committed ourselves publicly. To face down the threat against us and make who and what we are stronger. As individuals and together." He paused and asked the real question.

"So we hope you will come to our wedding?"

"Hmn. Wedding. Not really me."

"Think about it. And please do come."

He hummed noncommittally, surprised and oddly almost pleased by the invitation.

"How are you all doing?"

"We are fine. Good, in fact. Ellie's reinvention of the correspondence between herself and Lord Smallwood - and the situation with Magnussen you engineered - look as if it had done the trick. Broken the chain of connection at the very least.

"We have made written depositions about the situation which we have all signed and left in charge of our relative solicitors, to be released in the event of either our disgrace or demise. Piet and I have discussed the possibility of blackmail by Magnussen with our superiors and we have both dated and lodged letters of resignation to be activated should Magnussen's attempt to pressure us, and this become necessary.

"Neither of us are willing to become anyone's puppet. The hardest thing of all was to discuss ourselves with our relative parents: even though only Piet's mother, my father, are left. Piet's mother said she had always known about him - about us - in her heart and would welcome me as a son. We all cried." Fredrick Sondersun's face twisted, somewhere between anguish and joy.

"My father is very upset, in denial. He tells me he will never speak to either of us again. I asked him if he preferred me to be blackmailed and then labelled a traitor or recognised as an honest and loving human being who had decided to be honest - finally. He has still not yet answered me. He may never do so."

"His loss," Sherlock remarked levelly. "He will cool down and recognise that."

"We hope for that conclusion, yes." Fredrik Sondersun nodded his head.

"But otherwise - I am not sure what the future will bring us, Mr Holmes. Magnussen will not like his plans thwarted. He may well connect it to you and retaliate."

"There is no reason for him to connect it to me. Not for certain. Anyway, the fact is that he is hunting me, but that is for a different reason altogether. Not you, not your concern."

"To get to your brother? To use you as a lever? Yes, I would very much expect your brother to be in his sights. Magnussen is ambitious in his influence."

"Indeed so. That concerns me."

"Piet and I also. I am to tell you that if you need the help of either of us you are to contact immediately. Will you do that?"

"As long as it does not compromise you. Then I may. Thank you."

The Danish diplomat paused and collected a breath. He had done all he could. But there was one last appeal.

"Come to our wedding, Sherlock. We would like you there, It would not be happening if not for you."

"Sentiment, Fredrik? Dear me."

"Not at all. Piet likes you. Considers you an equal and an ally. Either is a rarity and a compliment, the two together are positively unknown. If you don't come he will think I have not been charming enough in delivering the invitation."

Fredrick Sondersun unexpectedly grinned and Sherlock Holmes grinned right back.

"If you put it like that…..I probably can't refuse in that case."

"We'll take that as a 'yes' then." He was immediately sober. "We are taking precautions. But where does this leave Jack Smallwood?"

"If Ellie's reinvention of history has worked - which I have no doubt it has after Magnussen's reaction and the events at Jack Smallwood's celebration evening - we may well have the whole arc of that little blackmail attempt dead in the water too. Unless Magnussen tries to revive it in a few weeks time when he thinks everyone will have forgotten Ellie's more innocent version of events.

"And he still has the originals of the real letters. So the fact remains I shall still need to acquire or destroy them. For closure, and for the Smallwood's peace of mind."

"So we are still not clear of this?"

"You are never clear of blackmail until you are clear of the blackmailer with finality. Fact of life."

Fredrik Sondersun looked across to the man opposite him speaking so dispassionately, leaning back at ease on the brown leather sofa, self contained and elegant even when dressed only in dressing gown and pyjamas.

"How do you deal with all this?"

"What do you mean?" A slight crinkle across the bridge of his nose passed as a frown.

"The pressure. The emotional strain. The responsibility?"

"Deal with it. It is what I do." A quick look away and a half shrug.

"Yes, I understand that. But the way Magnussen is pursuing you; that has become very personal, I think. Very connected to you, very specifically, in all ways. Should you not be afraid?"

"No. I can deal with that."

"Forgive me for asking, but are you also ….?"

"No. No, I'm not …like you and Piet ….if that is what you are asking. I am not anything. But let's say that I…. I know what I am doing. How to handle it."

"I believe you, Sherlock. But please take care of yourself."

The Danish diplomat rose to leave.

"I must go, I am afraid. I have meetings….."

The two shook hands.

"Thank you for coming. Keep in touch. Tell me if anything happens. I will see you out….."

Sherlock rose, tightened his dressing gown belt, led the way down the seventeen stairs, opened the internal door and the heavy black front door of 221B.

He was holding the door open for Sundersun to pass him and to move into the street, when the hairs on the back of his neck shivered alert in defensive instinct.

A split second before he heard the sound - he knew. Instinct fired. Alert then to a sound he recognised. The sound of the hammer of a gun being cocked back ready to fire…..

To retreat would be too slow; he needed to see where the danger was coming from. He stepped forward, an arm coming out to scoop Fredrick Sondersun backwards and behind him for safety, instantly alert and eyes seeking the unusual and the dangerous within his familiar environment, as that tiny sound from across Baker Street tickled his ears.

Grabbed instantly and protectively for his visitor with both hands - shoved the vulnerable body of Frederik Sondersun hard, backwards and down. Afterwards, he would swear that, all senses switched onto full alert, he actually heard the bullet carving through air.

Pushed the other man fiercely down as he turned, looked up and across the road. Towards the bus stop where an individual could stand for half an hour or more without drawing attention, in a spot where people lingered and were normally unnoticed….

A flash of movement, the shine of morning light on a gun barrel. A slight figure facing him square on, with both arms up and rising sharply from the kick of firearms recoil, pointing a shining stainless steel thing his way. Their way.

Only then, after that split second suspended in time and - always seeming too long in space, but also too short for avoiding action - there came that ominous wet heavy sound of a bullet slapping into flesh. Both Sherlock and Fredrik fell, and hit the tiled hallway floor together. Sherlock heard the other man gasp, swear, saw his blood gush.

"Fre…." he began, reaching out.

"No, leave me. Get the shooter."

The accented voice was agonised but still authoritative, face grey with shock, eyes rolling back in his head as he slumped down and further down.

"Mrs Hudson! Ambulance!" Sherlock called, loud and urgent.

Leapt over Fredrik Sondersun's body and was racing - barefoot, clad only in dressing gown and pyjamas - along the pavement of Baker Street, in pursuit of a slim figure in a tracksuit and clutching a Smith and Wesson 500 handgun that could only be Marie Dixon Carr.

TO BE CONTINUED…

 **Author's notes:**

Lloyd Loom furniture was first designed by American Marshall B Lloyd in 1917 and has been famous for classic design and durability ever since. The unique material is made by twisting craft paper around wire which is then woven into sheets and used to upholster various items of furniture from sofas, dining sets, armchairs, stools and laundry baskets..

All the village names Sherlock cites are real. Great Snoring is in Norfolk, next door to Little Snoring. Flash is in Staffordshire and the highest village in the Peak District. Idle is in West Yorkshire, near Bradford, and Grime in East Yorkshire.


	17. Chapter 17

Things We Lost In The Flames 17

'And You Were Away….'

He was running. Running hard. His eyes were fixed on her as she weaved through pedestrians on the pavement. This was not good. A woman with a killer instinct and a grudge, running. A woman carrying the most powerful production hand gun in the world, a gun the American makers boasted was 'a hunting handgun for any game animal walking."

Which was him.

It should have been him that had taken the bullet, his brain nagged at him as he ran, guilt impelling him to run faster. Him. Should have been him. Not Fredrik Sondersun now spilling his life's blood out onto Mrs Hudson's tiles as a result of a 500 calibre cartridge from a gun with a massive muzzle energy of 2,600 feet per pound. A stopper that would take down a elephant, not just the slight figure of Fredrik Sondersun. The thought tortured, made him move even faster.

He ran, his bare feet almost silent as they slapped down onto the slabs of the pavement of Baker Street. People turned to look at the madman in pyjamas and swirling silk dressing gown running unheeding down the street, but no-one helped or queried, or tried to stop him. Typical Londoners!

The only good thing was that, for a few precious seconds of advantage, she thought no-one was following her. Thought that she had taken both men down with her single shot, because she had seen both of them fall. A bullet of that calibre would, after all, have also passed through and taken down another twenty people who might theoretically have been standing behind Fredrik and Sherlock, so powerful was that gun.

So he ran on. Catching her up quickly. And just as he reached out to grab her shoulder some instinct for self preservation made her turn, offer shocked blue eyes to him, and instinctively raise the 500 to fire again.

He didn't even think about it.

Simply launched himself at her from ten feet away. His hands were out, clawing, focussing on the gun, and as he cannoned into her body his hands reached for nothing other than the shining muzzle of the 500.

One hand on it, cranking it harmlessly upwards - then both hands on it - as he threw himself onto her slim frame, falling now under his impact. He let her body break his own momentum and fall to the ground as hard as he could take her down. Chivalry be buggered.

As he did so the anger floated up again, and he savagely twisted the Smith and Wesson from her grip, took the gun in one hand and managed somehow to ram it into a dressing gown pocket before swiping his first free hand - his right - round the side of her head, across her eyes, cupping the wrong side of her face into a strong backwards hold. Wrenching her neck, constricting her breathing. Resisting the strong animalistic survival instinct, the angry temptation, to just twist that little bit harder and sharper, concuss the sensitive neck bones and just kill.

He could feel her teeth trying to get a purchase on his fingers.

"I _will_ break your neck if I have to, and do it right now," he hissed into her ear as they landed in the gutter together, scattering pedestrians, some of whom saw the gun and ran away breathless, shocked and squealing.

"Bastard!" she snarled.

"With parents married in a cathedral by a bishop in front of 600 guests? I think not."

He talked fast, not concentrating on words but on power, because he now had a leg across her body, pinning her down, pushing her down hard into the tarmac. Holding her arms down into the ground, not letting her sit up, lying across her and keeping her flat. Held down like that, she could neither rise nor break free.

She recognised her defeat all of a sudden, drew her head back in impotent fury and spat in his face. Half blinded by spittle, he still did not ease his hold, but shouted out an appeal into the crowd of bystanders:

"Would someone ring 999 or do I have to do everything myself?"

A teenager in baggy shirt and acid yellow lycra running leggings pushed back his baseball cap and said:

"Oh, cool! Always wanted to dial 999!"

And did so.

"Ask for police. Say a citizen's arrest is taking place on a wanted criminal, armed and dangerous, code red. Ask for back up now, and say where. Ask the control room to inform DI Lestrade at Scotland Yard…"

The boy did as bid.

"I'm to tell you they're on their way," he said. "Anything else I can do, bro?"

Sherlock looked up into big brown eyes in a concerned face.

"You've been a star, thanks," Sherlock assured.

"Big crim, is she?"

Sherlock's cold eyes met Marie Dixon Carr's burning eyes.

"Oh, yes," he said. "Bigger than you would believe. Just watch for the case in the papers."

"Wow!" the boy responded, and he hung around, unlike the rest of the crowd, until the sounds of a police siren could be heard turning into Baker Street and pulling up beside them.

Two patrolmen started to get out of the swift response BMW, reached back for their hats. Sherlock focussed down hard on the girl, the last chance he might get to ask any questions.

"Who put you up to this, Marie? Who wanted me dead? Or was it just all you?"

"You think I'm telling you anything?" The tone of her voice was pure vitriol. "You wait 'til my dad gets me out of this."

"Your dad won't be getting you out of anything or anywhere, dear girl. Not this time. The man you shot is a major international diplomat. And things get very hard and cold when you attack members of the diplomatic service; as your father will well know. You will be put straight on remand, and you won't get bail, and you won't see the outside world for years. Welcome to the real world. "

"I should have killed you in Copenhagen. When I had the chance." Her eyes were cold, her expression set into something of hatred and more.

"Flattery will get you nowhere. But it would have made no difference. The clock was already ticking for you and your brother. You were being greedy, aiming too high. Like all villains."

She spat at him again, and this time was distracted by the policeman who snapped on handcuffs, read her her rights, and bundled her into the back of the patrol car.

"Wish they were all as simple as this….." he began. "When someone else does the work for you…." And then Sherlock handed him the Smith and Wesson.

"Hell's bells!" The policeman said, pulling an evidence bag from his pocket and accepting the pistol very gingerly. "You don't see these every day!"

"Careful, the safety's now on, but it's still loaded. This will have her prints on it - and mine. You have my prints already on file - Sherlock Holmes. She attempted to shoot me and a friend on my doorstep, just up the road, less than ten minutes ago. My friend has been injured - don't know how badly. I must get back….."

"Are you hurt? There's blood on you….."

He looked down with a start. Blood spatter on the right hand side of his second best dressing gown, through to his T shirt, high on the upper chest and shoulder. Fredrik Sondersun's blood, still wet and smelling metallic. He put up a hand; blood on the side of his neck and jaw. Shot in the left shoulder then; he started when realisation of the coincidence came to him:

 _Just like John Watson…..Oh!_

"It's OK: not my blood."

"That's good, then. Want a lift back?"

"Thank you, no. Quicker and easier to just run back. I suggest you liaise with the ambulance service. Contact Lestrade at the Yard. Now please, I must go….Holmes, 221B, just back there…must go and see what is happening; how he is…. "

He turned and backtracked, running back now as fast as he had run the other way, with as much urgency. The voice in his head drumming: 'It should have been me, should have been me, should have…'

Back at the familiar black front door, the ambulance was just starting away without him, and he ran forward and banged on the side. The driver saw him in her mirrors, hesitated, and opened the window a crack.

"We've been told to take him to the King Edward VIIth on Beaumont Street. "

"Of course; how is he?"

 _The Edward: of course! The hospital for privacy, for celebrities and royalty. The private hospital that commanded the best consultants in the country. Of course the Edward!_

"A nasty wound, another inch and he would have been dead. You all right, sir? Only there is blood on you."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "Not mine. His."

"You got the shooter?"

"Yes. Police have custody. Reassure your patient. I will be at the hospital as soon as I am dressed."

"No problem."

The ambulance eased from the kerb, and the blue lights came on but no two-tone; urgent but not desperate.

Sherlock took a deep breath and held onto the railings outside the front door for a moment. He was breathless, shocked, and battling a need to just sit down on the front step.

 _Sit down on a front step? Another front step? No chance!_

Mrs Hudson opened the big black door, bucket and mop in hand, surrounded by a strong aroma of Jeyes Fluid; Sherlock's olfactory processes were assaulted by the strong antiseptic smell, and he stepped back.

"Lots of blood, Sherlock," she said vaguely, starting to mop. "Never a dull day when you are around."

"What…what happened?"

"I rang the ambulance, just like you said. Scooped up your visitor as best I could and stopped the bleeding. That's a new tea towel you owe me," she continued unperturbed. "He was badly shocked, of course. But the ambulance arrived ever so quickly, and they got him stable. They are taking him to hospital….."

"Yes, I saw."

"Did you catch the person who shot him? And was this about someone trying to shoot you?"

"Yes. And yes."

She looked up at him properly then. Put down the mop and bucket, took his elbow and guided him inside, shut the door. Walked him along the hall and made him sit down on the stairs.

"You've blood on you. Were you shot too?"

He huffed out a feeble laugh. _If anyone else asked….!_

"No. Fredrik's blood."

She sat down with him, put her hand on the back of his neck and forced his head down towards his knees without comment.

"Breathe deep. Before you faint."

He was about to make some sharp comment, but realised she was right; that the hand he put onto the bannister was shaking; that both hands were shaking. That he was shaking all over.

"It's OK, Mrs Hudson. Just reaction. It's OK."

She leaned into him on the third stair and put her frail arm across his thin shoulders.

"It's not OK. You're not OK. Oh, Sherlock, dear…."

She tried to pull him into a hug, which made him leap to his feet so quickly the walls spun and he staggered, clutching the coat hooks to stay upright.

He could see himself reflected in her alarmed eyes as he looked down at her. But she knew him.

"You go up. Lie down on the sofa. I'll bring you some tea."

She stood, heading for her kitchen, and he was pleased she did not see him clamber his way up the stairs with his hands as well as his feet on the worn treads, heave himself upright at the top and waver the twelve steps to the muddy brown leather sofa.

No sooner did his head hit the cushions than the phone rang.

"I hear Marie Dixon Carr is on her way here to the Yard and under arrest?"

Lestrade's voice was, as usual, calm and steady, steadying. "A citizen's arrest. You, I presume?"

"Yes. She tried to shoot me at my front door. Hit a man called Fredrick Sondersun instead. He's a Danish diplomat, ex army, high up in the Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe; one of the world's most important security organisations, as I'm sure you know. Here for meetings in Whitehall He won't make those meetings now.

"He's been taken to the King Edward; at his own request. I assume he'll be safe there. They know what they're doing."

"Blimey; you have to be mega rich or hyper important to get in there. Do I assume he's both?"

"You could say that. I'm going over to him as soon as I can."

"Is this anything to do with your brother? Or Magnussen?"

"I am hoping neither. I am hoping this was just a vindictive little girl trying to get her own back on a spoilsport who stopped her smuggling scam. That's me, by the way. You could say we have history."

"I need you to come in to make a statement. And you'll want to observe Marie and Mark Dixon-Carr's questioning?"

"Yes. Thank you. But via the two way, I think. Better if they don't see me."

"I agree. Later, then. About 2pm?"

Fine."

He finished the call, but then saw there were texts waiting to be opened. He groaned and decided to get it over with.

 **41 hrs ago: Call. ES**

DELETE

LATER

 **32 hrs ago: Come for a meal? Holiday snaps! J &MW**

DELETE

 **20 hrs ago: Supper at mine? Janine X**

DELETE

 _Oh God._

REPLY

 **Angelo's already booked! See you at 8pm SHX**

 **8.40am: Not heard from you. Anything happening? Kitty**

DELETE

REPLY

THINK

 **Will contact later this week. SH**

SEND

 **11.45am: Chat? Pike**

DELETE

REPLY

 **Will drop into El Vino's today or tomorrow teatime. Thanks SH**

He drank the tea and ate the two slices of toast Mrs Hudson brought him.

Felt better equipped to face the rest of the day.

Showered again, dressed and returned the tray to Mrs Hudson. Dropped a kiss onto her cheek, was batted away and left Baker Street for hospital.

o0o0o0o

The elegant façade of the King Edward VII Hospital looked more like a club or high class member's hotel than a hospital, with its leaded light oak doors and Art Deco portico entrance, but Sherlock Holmes knew it was one of the most exclusive and best equipped hospitals in London, with an unparalleled reputation for discretion, privacy and security. The first choice for Royalty and the famous.

Simply getting past reception showed how much weight the hospital's reputation held. Personal ID demanded with the most exquisite politeness, his identity and appearance checked against the person he was to visit; a photograph taken, a security man detailed to escort him along the marbled floors and panelled halls to Fredrick Sondersun's room.

Which could have been an elegant hotel room if it wasn't for the high bed, the medical charts and a businesslike trolley, the drip stand holding saline that was going into the back of Fredrik Sondersun's hand.

A tall slim nurse and the patient turned to him.

"Sherlock…" Fredrik put his free hand out and without thinking, Sherlock Holmes gripped it, then returned it underneath the covers.

"Fredrik, I'm so….."

"No. Do not apologise. Just tell me you caught her?"

"Yes."

"Did she shoot anyone else?"

"No."

Thank God for that. Are you OK? In the ambulance…I heard the medic say…you had blood on you."

"Yours. Not mine. I'm….."

"Stop trying to apologise."

"It's my fault you are here. That bullet was meant for me. I really must apologise."

The pale blue eyes looking at him were intelligent, focussed, professional.

"No. She made a mistake. Instead of taking an extra half second to concentrate on spotting her quarry and marking you full on, she immediately assumed the tall slim man in the sharp suit coming out of your door was you. So who the scruffy other guy still in pyjamas at 11am, was meant to be, I dread to think!"

He was smiling now, trying to make Sherlock feel better, even though in pain and suffering. Sherlock shook his head.

"How do you feel, Fredrik? What can I do for you?"

"As well as can be expected, thank you. I feel I had a lucky escape. She almost missed me, thanks to you. I could have been dead; yes, I do know that, Sherlock. But I am already better than I was, although not yet as good as I will be. And if you want to do something…..call Piet and tell him what has happened."

He nodded.

"Anything I can get you?"

"Someone from the embassy has it all in hand." He grew serious. "Was she a tool of Magnussen?"

"I believe so, yes. It is the girl who attacked me in Copenhagen. She escaped from a drugs bust two days ago, and there was the police were hunting her. Her father is a Member of Parliament. I suspect she and her brother have wriggled out of many attempts to arrest them before because of that. But shooting a Danish diplomat moves the game into new areas she will not be able to wriggle out of and it will also stop her father having priority and calling in favours to get her released. Which is thanks to you. Your shooting was not in vain"

"Good to be useful."

They shared a small ironic smile, then watched the nurse step forward, murmur politely about the patient needing rest. Fredrik nodded agreement, Sherlock understood.

"I will go. Call Piet on the way out. I'll check on you later. Take care."

o0o0o0o

The conversation with Piet Bruhl was terse and economical on an open line.

"How is he?"

"Better than anyone could expect. Still damaged."

"I will arrange things here and get the first plane over; should be in London by evening. I will be at the hospital as soon as possible."

"I will notify them."

"Thank you. Will you be around?"

"At home later. To the Yard and the city next."

"OK. Will text you."

And the line went dead.

Sherlock closed his phone, walked back to reception to prepare them for a visitor to room 210, and made his way to New Scotland Yard.

o0o0o0o

Lestrade was being moderately smug.

"Arresting the Dixon Carrs has just been the tip of the iceberg. The Drug Squad are hugging themselves; from paperwork and stock they have found, this may well turn out to be a bigger bust than Operation Julie with all the connections coming to light. Did I say 'thank you' humbly enough?"

Sherlock shrugged dismissively.

"Don't thank me. I had help."

He was thinking of Deeza and Langdale Pike. He had debts to pay.

"Try and find me a link to the media mogul Charles Augustus Magnussen."

Lestrade's attention sharpened.

"You know something I don't?"

"Not sure, This is …personal."

Lestrade cocked his head. "It's never personal with you. What's this about?"

"Not…certain. But I know the Dixon Carrs are Magnussen's tools; a big part of his system of eyes and ears breaking the trust of the rich and famous, the innocent and the victimised."

"You mean you? Sherlock? Is this something I should know about?"

He did not reply. Just raised his eyes to meet those of Greg Lestrade. And Lestrade, who knew Sherlock Holmes better than anyone, stopped asking questions and just nodded his head in a silent promise.

o0o0o0o

Langdale Pike saw him enter El Vino's and left his group of fellow journalists to draw them to a small private booth at the rear of the premises. Two glasses of Bordeaux appeared at their elbows, and they sat and looked at each other for a moment.

"I hear the Dixon Carrs have been arrested. A drugs raid. That the club has been closed. Temporarily, they say."

"Could be permanent," Sherlock observed mildly.

"Good God! Was that me, responsible for that?"

"Not exactly. But you pointed me in the right direction. After that I had help."

He thought of Deeza Davies: wrapped in the material of a ruined tent without poles, hunched and sleeping in St Paul's Churchyard for the past three years. Deeza who had been his eyes and ears, had tipped him off about the Il Rondo and the contraband shipping, who had made the break that solved the case.

Deeza, who he had just taken into a charity shop to get a complete new outfit. Who he had just taken to a housing association project in Clerkenwell and subbed for a bedsit and a new start. A roof over his head and a permanent address so he could now claim benefit, look for a job, crawl towards a new way of life. Thank you, Deeza.

"You want this information as a newspaper story? Your exclusive?" Sherlock asked Dale Pike. "Then get your notebook out and start writing."

So he told him. The very private Sherlock Holmes revealed the secrets of the Il Rondo, of the brother and sister who ran it. About their activities. How Marie Dixon Carr had tried to shoot Sherlock Holmes and been caught in the street. About their links to Magnussen.

Pike scribbled, went pale with concentration and excitement.

"This is a whole raft of stories, Sherlock. All exclusives. Thanks, mate."

"Exclusives for you to develop, Dale, Picking away at the mortar in the wall protecting Magnussen. What you do best. My thank you."

Langdale Pike wiped his hand over his face.

"I wish Nick was here to share this. To find out he was right all along, and know his file was now out there doing it's work….his work. He would be so proud. Feel so justified."

"Yes. I know."

He swallowed hard. "So what are we going to do about Kitty?"

"Don't know yet. Let's say we're working on it."

o0o0o0o

He rang Lady Smallwood from just outside the hospital portico. A quiet spot, not overheard.

"Me," he announced himself. "Update." He quickly told her of the happenings of the day; the shooting, Fredrik's missed meetings, Marie Dixon Carr's arrest and questioning: the growing repercussions of investigations at the Il Rondo.

"Magnussen is not going to like this. He will feel the noose is tightening," she declared.

"I indeed hope so. Because it is."

"Will he connect this with you?"

"Who knows? Who cares? If he does, it distracts him from Jack. It's his move next, whatever the direction."

There was a silence on the line; Sherlock waited.

"The Guildhall …...what you planned… turned out…..worse, more difficult than I had expected. I'm sorry, William."

"No apology. It was _exactly_ what I had planned. I was lucky it worked so well. Mycroft's unwitting timing could not have been better. Thank you for your help, in fact. Magnussen would never have believed any of it without your anger."

"How is Mycroft? It was only later I realised that your brother really had no idea what was coming."

"We spoke afterwards. He is fine."

"Does he understand why you did….what you did?"

"Immaterial, Lady Smallwood. And you are not to sympathise with him, discuss this, or attempt to explain my actions."

"That is going to be hard."

"Indeed so. That's what life is."

She sucked in a breath. His detachment was even more chilling than her own. But she did not know how he would take what she had to say next, the reason she had texted him in the first place.

"I have something more to ask you." She made a noise of frustration in her throat, and he heard it.

"Something nice, clearly," he commented drily.

"Stop it!" she ordered. "This is hard enough as it is…" he was silent, saying nothing, not helping her. " Jack is worrying. He knows you and Ellie have worked miracles already; but he is worrying about the real letters between them Magnussen used to start all this off. He can't settle because of it. He is more frightened now - now he has had such acclaim from his friends and peers - than he was before, feels he has more to lose than he ever realised."

"Go on."

"He would like you to try and get those letters back. And I don't even know how I dare ask you to try."

"Jack needs your support. He is not well. So not thinking too clearly." There was silence on the line as he thought for a moment.

"My instinct says we should sit on this for now. So soon after Ellie's rewriting of history Magnussen will be even more suspicious than he is already of those innocent little _billets doux -_ if this subject comes straight up again. Tell Jack that.

"I will be very happy to present myself as your intermediary on this if you want me to make this an official approach. But hold fire just for now. I need more data. This is a long game. Let it be so."

He heard her release a long tense breath.

"I am nor prevaricating. I am trying, Elizabeth. Truly."

"I know. I saw your face when you struck Mycroft. I…." she paused. "Please give Mr Sondersun my best wishes."

o0o0o0o

Piet Bruhl turned in his chair where he was sitting by the hospital bed. Looked levelly at Sherlock Holmes but did not speak, smile, offer any greeting. Just looked.

"I am sorry."

"Stop it."

He put down Frederik's hand, rose from his chair to clasp Sherlock Holmes in a short fierce hug. Then held on to restrain the sharp recoil backwards. Stopped him short, gave the younger and taller man a brisk hard shake and looked hard up into his eyes.

"Stop it. We have been through too much together for you to start apologising now, Sherlock."

Blank opal eyes gazed down at him without appearing to register a response and then moved across to Fredrik.

"You look better than before. You feel better?"

"Out of shock. So yes, thank you."

Sherlock grasped the rail of the footboard of the bed, updated them both on the arrest of Mark and Marie Dixon Carr, the start of questioning, the investigation by the police, Customs and Excise, the Drugs Squad. Read the medical notes.

"So I really was shot in a good cause, to flush out and capture a serious criminal network."

"Indeed so," the consulting detective agreed. "But cutting a tentacle off the octopus will not kill it, may just make it angry. I do not know what Magnussen will do next. And I have an appointment in an hour with my spy to find out what is going on at CAM News; what Magnussen's mood is now."

"Then go. We will talk with you tomorrow."

"Yes. Thank you. I am…I am…"

"Just shut up and go."

So he did.

o0o0o0o

Janine was sitting at their usual table and nibbling a breadstick when he arrived, dropping a kiss onto her sleek dark hair, then her cheek, as he sat down.

Angelo Grimaldi took one look at him and put a brandy by his elbow without comment. And Sherlock drank it.

"Hello, Little One. How was your day?"

"Fine. Good. Busy." He forced himself to change mental gear. Smiled warmly at her, took her hand and kissed the fingers.

"So: what will we eat? And how was your day?" he asked.

So she told him. And he listened, trying hard not to look intense and absorbed and fascinated.

She told him about the black mood Magnussen had suffered - or, rather, she had been made to suffer for him - for the last two days: ranting around the office, picking on staff, white faced and silent, or red faced and angry. Surging through paperwork and muttering to himself.

"Does he behave like that often?" Sherlock asked mildly offhand, carefully not over interested.

"Never since I've worked for him. And he won't say what's wrong either."

"Do you two chat? Have you told him about me?"

"Of course not! None of his business! Although perhaps I might one day. When I marry you…." she made a joke of it, slanted a smile his way, But he was aware that she was joking yet probing - that a part of her was serious. He needed to change the subject, and fast.

"So what's behind it, do you think?"

"Dunno. All I can tell you is that he's behaving like a big kid having a strop."

 _Don't worry, Janine. I know only too well why he is behaving like this. His best acolytes, mob and major gossip mongers have been taken out - in one fell swoop! The wind is at his back, Janine, and the east wind is coming for him._

"That must make life very hard for you?"

"I'm tougher than that, Sherl. Takes more than my boss doing a moody to get to me!"

He laughed with her at that, because she was right. It took a lot of professionalism and grit to work for Magnussen. Janine was his resilient equal in so many ways. So for once he smiled at her with true warmth and a rare softness in his eyes.

She caught that look and gasped. Put a delicate hand to his cheek and trailed the fingers across his jaw line. He closed his eyes.

"There are times," she purred low into his face across the table, "….when I could put down my fork and spoon and just eat you raw. With my bare hands."

"Doesn't sound very hygienic," he deflected.

She smiled a little at the slight blush now on his cheeks.

 _He can be so gentle. So loveable. So unaware of himself….._

"No. Something else entirely."

There was no mistaking her meaning, and for a second or three his brain went offline.

 _Just what I need to complicate matters now!_

"Good job I have a visitor, then," he parried lightly, using humour and a certain economy of words to depress her mood. "A friend from abroad. A surprise flying visit. Sorry."

 _No word of a lie. Just being economical with the truth. After all, Piet Bruhl might arrive at 221B, and if he did he would be a welcome guest. And someone being shot on your doorstep pretty much counted as a surprise._

She swallowed her disappointment.

"Perhaps for the best. You have escaped my clutches, Sherlock Holmes. Foiled again."

He offered up a prayer for her basic humour and good nature.

Especially when she kept talking about work, and Magnussen's plans for the week. The trick was to appear amused, not interested, And he let her talk on.

They parted outside Angelo's. A taxi appeared out of nowhere. She made a joke about his ability to magic taxis out of thin air, just the way John Watson had used to. He ignored the shaft to his heart that memory brought to him.

And then he trudged home alone. Surely there was nothing else he had to do today?

His three days away from the world had been compensated for in twelve hectic and murderous hours. He was well aware that if things had happened in another way, he would have been dead on the ground.

Not knowing, or caring, or doing anything any more. A thorn out of many sides. A silence of accountability. A pressure point off his brother's hands, at the very least.

Thinking about that was not helpful. So he switched on his phone.

Just two texts.

 **8.14pm: This one sided conversation is getting bloody boring now, Sherlock! Talk to me, you cock. JW**

DELETE

DELETE

DELETE

 **8.46pm: Meet required. Tomorrow 2pm. My penthouse. CAM**

The shock of that made him break stride and stop. He read the text three times and it read the same every time.

Under the light of a shop canopy he tapped the phone against his teeth, thought for a moment. Worked his thumbs over the keyboard.

 **11.12pm: 2.30pm. SH**

Took a breath. Stood poised and still. Gathering courage within himself to leap into the void. Finally clicked:

SEND.

Stood. Waited. All action and reaction starved of thought, air, impulse. Almost stopped breathing. Until the phone trilled again.

 **11.13pm: Yes. CAM**

DELETE

DELETE

DELETE

DELETE…

Looked blankly at the now empty screen for two long minutes. Took a deep and steadying breath.

He put the phone back into his pocket and walked steadily back towards 221B Baker Street.

TO BE CONTINUED…..

 **Author's notes:**

The King Edward VII Private Hospital was formerly known as the King Edward VII Hospital For Officers. It was established in 1899 to treat soldiers returning from the Second Boer War, and is the only hospital in the country where consultants are invited to work there rather than be assessed then employed by vacancy and interview.

HRH Princess Margaret Rose died there. HRH The Queen is Patron of the hospital and a sometime patient.

Operation Julie was a two and a half year drugs investigation in the mid 1970's, resulting in the arrests of 120 people in the UK and France, and recovery of drugs to a street value (current) of up to £600 million. It has been the subject of TV and radio dramas, a book and film.


	18. Chapter 18

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 18: 'Burn on the pyre….'

There are strong elements of adult blackmail intent and sexual manipulation in this chapter in line with the established running plot which is itself in line with the plot of _His Last Vow._ If this element is offensive to you, don't read. Or if you do, don't complain This is fair warning.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Molly," the voice that spoke her name came from a corner of the morgue. Sherlock Holmes sat watching Molly Hooper work, with his chin down on his chest as he balanced on the high stool leaning back into the wall, long legs crossed at the ankles, long arms held in front of him, hands linked loosely together.

He had been sitting there, silent and self contained, for a couple of hours. It was not unusual for him to do this, and Molly, after a brief greeting, had left him to his thoughts and got on with her work.

"Molly. Need your opinion."

"Mine? What about?"

She was concentrating on removing samples from the late Elliott Brading, so it was several moments before she realised he had not answered her. So she finally stopped what she was doing, turned, and looked at him properly.

He glanced up at her quickly, and then away.

"I value your opinion. No-one else I can ask."

"Oh. OK?"

" I don't get this myself, but,,,,but would you say I am attractive? That someone would…." he gagged at the words, but pressed on. "….find me an object of sexual desire? As it were?"

He frowned at her when she burst out laughing, realised he was serious, and put down everything she was holding and just looked at him.

Yes. It seemed that he was perfectly serious. The blank expression, elusive eyes, slightly hunched shoulders and telltale spots of colour on the cheekbones told her that.

"Why do you want to know?" she asked with regained composure and total civility.

"For a case," he muttered.

"If I didn't know you better I would say you needed your vanity stroking. Except I know your total gorgeousness is something you just do not get. So: a bothersome female, is it?" She tossed her head and smiled, desperate to mask her feelings. Of love flaring unbidden, of passing and uncharacteristic jealousy.

He saw none of this; and if he had he would register it as just Molly; just what Molly does, and not even file the reaction away to examine later. He thought of Janine and shrugged as if in puzzlement or despair. Molly thrust that little spark of jealousy back down when she saw him blush.

"So why is that a problem?"

"Because it is."

The snap reply brooked no response, and he made a typical snort of impatience. With himself, she thought.

"But there is also….." He stuttered to a stop again.

Molly Hooper grinned at him and shook her head.

"You have a man pursuing you too? Who else but you would be so lucky? Or even consider it a problem?"

"Could you just take this seriously?"

His irritation and embarrassment was palpable, and she found she was amused by it. Probably wouldn't be human if she wasn't, she reflected.

"I am taking it seriously," she said softly. "I'm sorry."

He looked at her, nodded briefly in what might have been apology. She gathered her scattered wits and tried to put into words the object of her dreams.

"It is so hard to have to describe you to you, Sherlock. Look in the mirror. Do you not see tall dark and handsome? Do you not see dark curls people want to run their hands through? Beautiful unique eyes that see everything? A mouth anyone would want to kiss? A long slim body that is just…." she shook her head, blushing herself now and trying to quell her imagination. Even though she had more than once seen him naked and vulnerable and looking so young and so human before her.

But she pushed on, despite the fact he was looking at her as if she was speaking Swahili. "Add your dark chocolate voice, that cool panther walk, imperious charisma and big brain….the whole package is irresistible. To men as well as women. Women just want you. Men want to be you - and some of them also just want you. So what else can I possibly tell you?"

She smiled at him with such sweet simplicity it made him frown even harder, and look almost angry. Though with her or himself she could not tell.

"But that is just how I look, the shell," he protested. "It is unimportant."

"You see, there's the problem. The brain. Works too much. It's an attraction that brain, but it is the problem as well. Oh!" she wavered to a halt in confusion. "It's just this amazing package. It's just YOU!"

"But I am not a nice person, Molly. Make me understand how anyone could even think I am attractive when I am not a nice person."

She looked at him, at a total loss. Normally they could have this sort of conversation as light hearted surface sparring, an intellectual exercise in deflection, a game of consequences to just make empty semi-detached conversation across a dead body, conversation for it's own sake, a duologue that is a conspiracy of their past, their history of mutual misunderstandings yet their ultimate complicity. But this was something else.

Looking at him now she could see things he exhibited so rarely - uncertainty, vulnerability, hesitancy - so she almost thought he was rehearsing a role for The Work. Using her as a guinea pig, a litmus test, a gauge of reactions to the pose he intended to assume.

Except she felt sure the puzzlement was real this time, for there was a raw edge of nervousness to it. The frown was genuine and the eyes almost desperate as they looked at her with some appeal she could not quite read.

She stopped smiling at him then and recognised the chill that had slipped between her shoulders, passed from him to her. She had always wanted to cherish him and protect him, even though she knew that was a stupid thing to want to offer to someone like Sherlock Holmes. Recognised that instinct was just another aspect of the hopeless infatuation she had always had for him.

Infatuation, yes of course, but also - and even more than that - her love for him as a friend; which was another state she recognised as being just as hopeless; for she knew he would never admit affection, friendship or love. Not for anyone. Giving, accepting, or sharing any of these proofs of humanity was not Sherlock Holmes' way.

She was used to the sadness of that recognition by now, and the jolt of pain she always suffered because of it. For herself certainly, but also for him, too; how that thought always made her feel; and to reflect how she wanted just to put her arms round him, break his reserve, kiss away the awful isolation she always sensed within him. To try to make him whole, fill the appalling void in him that only those who knew him well could see; a void that perhaps sometimes even appalled the man himself. Sometimes she thought this was so, and shied away from that.

"What is all this about, Sherlock? Is it…." she hesitated, trying to be diplomatic, delicate, yet caring. "…is it about what happened to you the other day? You know? Being drugged and…stuff?"

"No," he replied shortly. Then: "I should not have started this conversation. Forget I spoke."

He stood up from the stool and started to cross the room, to leave. But she stepped in front of him to stop him, put her hands on his arms to centre him. Make him listen to her.

"You are handsome and clever and unique and there are a lot of people who respect you. Love you, too, some of us. Believe that." She shook the arms under her hands, and not for the first time wanted to smack sense into him "But even if you were ugly and horrible, it would still be the same. Everyone deserves respect. To not be bullied or abused. That means you, too."

"I don't….haven't….earnt that."

He looked down, towards her. But not at her. Anywhere but directly at her.

"You don't earn it, you dimwit. It is yours by right, Because you are a human being."

"Oh, Molly. I'm not human. There is nothing human about me."

And he was gone. Leaving Molly Hooper still holding out her arms to him, sad, frustrated, and wanting to cry.

o0o0o0o

The receptionist recognised him this time.

"Good afternoon, Mr Holmes. Your pass, the private lift, floor thirty two. Mr Magnussen is expecting you."

He stepped out of the glass shaft into the foyer of the penthouse. The door to the main room was open, and he stepped through.

Magnussen was standing on the other side of the large dining table, his hands full of papers, jacket off and shirt cuffs rolled back. He looked up over the top of his spectacles with a swift smile.

"Aah! Good afternoon, Mr Holmes."

"You wanted to see me."

"Oh, yes. I hope you do not mind being summoned? But you did not come to me as I hoped and might have expected."

"I am shy."

Magnussen looked at him levelly for a long moment. Neither man blinked, and it was clear the Dane really did not know whether to believe him or not.

"Let us get down to business. I need an answer to a question I asked you. I asked if you would come and work for me. You have had time to think about your response. So: what do you say?"

"I am afraid I am unable to do take up your offer. Upon consideration."

Magnussen shot a keen look in his direction. And was not deflected.

"We shall see if you are still of the same mind at the end of this meeting, when I will ask you the question again."

He stood erect, braced his shoulders, beckoned Sherlock to join him; everything about him speaking of arrogance, power, internal energy running in top gear. Sherlock, on the other hand was withdrawn and watchful, so quiet and contained it seemed all his energy and confidence were elsewhere.

Did as he was bidden and rounded the end of the table to stand at Magnussen's side.

The taller older man looked at him sideways, assessing for a long moment, then leaned close into him and spoke softly into his ear:

"Let me show you something."

Sherlock's eyes moved slowly to the things Magnussen held in his hand: a selection of photographs. Slightly out of focus security camera stills. But with the people shown readily identifiable. Magnusseen's long slim hands slowly placed the photographs one at a time onto the dining table.

They all showed the West Crypt, London's Guildhall. Sherlock Holmes, in full evening dress, was easily identified, raising his arm to his brother. Magnussen fanned the other photographs so he might see the sequence of action: the blow striking Mycroft Holmes on the jaw. Next - the older brother tumbling. Next - the younger brother leaning in, looming over the figure on the floor, fist raised. Next - the attacker striding away as his brother clambered to his feet.

Neither Charles Augustus Magnussen nor Lady Elizabeth Smallwood featured in the photographs. Airbrushed from history. In the still photographs at least.

"Where. Did. You. Get. Those?"

The five words emerged low, thick with something that might have been anger, shame, or a little of both.

"I am a newspaperman, you stupid boy. With limitless contacts, bottomless pockets and blank cheques. I can get anything I want." He peered down at the photographs. Looked up and into Sherlock's eyes, and smiled the smile of a tiger. "Even you."

The consulting detective repressed his recoil, but Magnussen saw she shadow of it, and his smile deepened.

"Publish and be damned. As they say." Sherlock's reply was automatic, anger close to the surface which he struggled to contain.

"Oh, I will, Mr Holmes. But thank you for your permission. All that is scheduled for three days time."

"Why not tomorrow? Strike while the iron is hot, and all that."

"To give you time to think about it, of course. To stew. To warn your brother. To see if he makes his own appeal to me. Presents a bargaining offer to stop me, even. You, too could make me an offer? In fact, I am very much hoping you will."

The meaning was obvious. Sherlock retreated behind the protective wall of his personality.

"You underestimate my brother. Both of us. We don't care about the opinion of the world. Or the opinion of each for the other. We never have done. These photos will affect neither of us."

"Brave words. But empty, I think. Your brother is a major player. He has an impeccable reputation and standards to uphold."

Magnussen's quiet smile held and was superior, egotistical, assured. Sherlock knew he should be frightened. Of what had been said, and of what was to come.

"Not as far as I am concerned. I am a liability long acknowledged and long ignored. He has always been successful despite me."

"That must be a trial for both of you," Magnussen offered with idiot sympathy in his voice but not his eyes.

Sherlock remained motionless, expression studiously empty, body stilled and without reaction.

"So? Nothing here that moves you yet? OK. So you should now see this."

He moved slightly, picked up and turned over another pile of photographs. Photographs taken on Kitty Haig's doorstep. Himself sitting on the step in the rain. Being greeted by a woman in a dressing gown and clearly roused from her bed. Leaving the house with Molly Hooper, being bade farewell by a now dressed Kitty.

The same photographs that had made all the newspapers a few days ago. But photographs showing the other side, this time - showing the girls faces. Making both Kitty and Molly totally identifiable.

"When the original photographs appeared, they were discreet shots; no-one would recognise your ladies, even their own friends and family. When the photographs from these angles are published, the world will know and recognise your lady friends. Dr Hooper will find her reputation clouded by her connection with you, and your easy access to Bart's will be curtailed.

"Then there will be the sensation of Sherlock Holmes in liaison with the reporter who was in league with his arch enemy and slurred his name so deeply he pretended to commit suicide and stayed in hiding for two years. Or was he in on it? For the publicity? The sensationalism?" He shrugged, amused at the thought. "A major scandal, regardless. Or I should say…. it will be when I have finished with it."

"But Kitty Haig is your animal. You employ her. It will reflect badly on you."

"Not when it is me exposing the story. So moral of me, don't you think? Washing my dirty linen in public, yes? In the interest of truth and disclosure. Exposing you both and being so noble. Doing the right thing and exposing the truth about you."

"But it isn't the truth."

"Do not be naïve, Mr Holmes. I am a newspaperman." Magnussen waggled a finger under his nose, at the verge of laughter. "Truth is what I say it is. And the great and the good and all the other morons who buy my newspapers will believe what I tell them. And then the hyenas who work for other newspapers will pick up the bones and run with them also. For that is the power of the press. To explode the reputations of the famous and powerful. To curtail their power."

Sherlock checked himself from stepping forward and planting a fist. Instead gave a slight shrug of one shoulder.

"Both ladies are adults. They will cope. There are people who feel assignations with me are a matter for admiration, not defamation." He thinks of Molly, guiltily bats the thought aside. "You of all people should know that."

"My, my. You _are_ being brave and noble. If not exactly chivalrous in upholding the ladies' honour."

"No-one expects me to be chivalrous, or operate to some populist moral code. So why are you doing this? " Sherlock looked down at the pictures, and this time his voice was curious, mildly conversational.

"Because I can. Because I have not yet been able to bend you to my will in any other way. And that both annoys me and piques my interest in you even further, Mr Holmes. I have a strong impression that you are not - ah - indifferent to me. Nor are you put off by my condition…."

"Palmar hyperhidrosis is common enough," Sherlock dismissed haughtily. "A fault of the central nervous system but also a psychological condition assumed by people who need a physical as well as a psychological reason for not being accessible or attuned to others. Is that the real heart of your condition, Mr Magnussen?" He took a step closer, raised his head in defiance. Kept punching.

"Hiding your lack of heart? Hiding it behind the excuse and the appeal for sympathy of a physical condition most people would not envy having themselves? How very manipulative."

Magnussen clenched his fists and his eyes blazed for a moment, Sherlock spotted that, and the other man saw the awareness. He forced the untypical anger back down and caught his breath.

After a moment he managed the disarming yet empty eyed little smile that was his default position. Sherlock was again reminded of the cold eyes of a shark.

"Of course I am manipulative, you moron. How do you think I have made so much money, gained so much influence in the world? And is there not an English phrase about a pot calling a kettle black? That is how your brain works also."

"I don't do excuses or appeals for sympathy."

"Of course. The fabled British stiff upper lip."

Sherlock quirked a humourless smile.

"Works for me."

"Perhaps." The older man put a hand briefly onto the consulting detective's arm but drew no response.

Magnussen pulled in a breath and considered.

"There is also another factor. Since I have met you several of my - ah - projects have failed before they have even started. I do wonder if there is a connection, perhaps?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

Magnussen stepped closer into Sherlock's personal space, looked down at him with something between command and scorn.

"Really? Let me see. Some people I know and am interested in are suddenly changing things in their lives - correspondence from the past kept lovingly in pretty boxes: a wedding planned, past whims and transgressions swept aside. Solicitors consulted, even And all after a meeting with you in Copenhagen. Anything coming to mind yet?" Sherlock shrugged, shook his head and looked uninterested.

"An associate of mine has, sadly, also recently broken an arm. Another going about her daily business has been arrested…."

Sherlock decided to halt the charade before the list reached Mycroft.

"Would that be a mischievous little minx with a boat and a big ego? Who seems to think she is Modesty Blaise?"

"Ah, so you are aware of whom I speak…." Magnussen's smile was the indifferent killer rictus of the shark.

"I am in constant contact with Scotland Yard. Of course I am up to date on their major cases."

"Merely up to date? I see."

Magnussen nodded, crossed to the other end of the large dining table and picked up another batch of prints. Held them away from himself to look at them, tilted his head appreciatively at what he saw, then brought them close up to his chest as he strolled back, so Sherlock could not see them before Magnussen was ready to produce them.

"It has come to my attention that you know Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. That you have known her and her husband for years. Since you were a little boy, in fact."

"Barely. Just members of my family's social strata during childhood. That is neither friendship nor a secret."

"She also works alongside your brother. So strange how so many things affecting my life suddenly seem connected to yourself and your brother."

Sherlock went cold, filled with a dangerous sense of premonition. Fought to maintain his cool and disinterested exterior. This was all getting too….close. Too dangerous. Too personal. And, he realised despondently, just how Magnussen intended he should feel.

"At the Guildhall Lady Smallwood described you as a horrid little boy and a horrid man even now. Yet you went to her house the other evening. Now: I wonder why that might be?"

"To make sure your invitation to the Guildhall was solid. I was trying to help. Because I thought you would enjoy such an occasion of pomp and personality."

"Not because she had handed you a case?"

"An understandable conjecture, but a mistaken one. I once worked in her department at Whitehall, very briefly. Left before she was there and I died of boredom. Sometimes I undertake a freelance commission."

"For the lady herself? Or her department?"

"To Lady Smallwood I remain a nasty little boy who meddles and has no manners. The state of affairs between myself and my brother - her close colleague - does not help to improve the situation. So at times I work remotely, for the department in general."

There was enough truth in that statement to have an authentic ring to it, and Magnussen recognised that without further pursuing more of the answers Sherlock had omitted from his statement.

"Mr Magnussen, you must learn to stop seeing bogeymen around every corner."

"But that is my job, Mr Holmes. My being. Who I am and what I do." He paused, head raised in confidence, in defiance of Sherlock's riposte. Stepped closer in to him.

"You are not a horrid little boy. Quite the opposite. You are unique and attractive and rather appealing. But perhaps a little more stupid and vulnerable than you care to admit."

Sherlock's head lifted as if to a scent. After a moment spent stoking down his responses, he simply said: "No."

"Oh, yes! But please do not worry about that, Mr Holmes. That is just my objective view as a newspaperman. My subjective view as a human being is somewhat different. Sherlock."

That drawled name. that smile on the face of a tiger again, Sherlock thought. Tiger, shark, wolf…a lone hunter and predator, whatever. And waited.

"I have some more photographs for you to see. I am sure you will find these…..especially edifying. You really should want to see these."

The expression on his face prepared Sherlock for what Magnussen handed him then.

"I doubt it," Sherlock remarked, offhandedly, as he took the photographs. "But if it humours you…."

And, because he had been expecting this, anticipating this, seeing no alternative to this - because otherwise what would have been the point of it all? - he turned the photographs over. Knowing only too well what they were.

So he was able to look at them with no reaction visible whatsoever. Pretend the photographs were of someone else, torments experienced by someone else. Despite the anticipation, there was still shock and a new variation on crawling shame.

He felt Magnussen watching him keenly, standing less than six feet away. In his peripheral vision he saw the older man lean into him slightly, felt his energy reaching out.

How the man not only looked at the photographs Sherlock was seeing before him, but also looking to see how Sherlock was seeing them, reaching down into his eyes and yearning for reaction. Sherlock recognised that, and refused the challenge.

"Beautiful, do you not think? I keep a copy of _that_ one by my bed," he remarked as Sherlock flicked quickly through the ten photographs that repulsed him and made his very skin react as if there were maggots moving beneath.

He chuckled then, and Sherlock considered exactly how he was going to smash that smug face into a pulp, and what weapon would be more delightful than his fists.

"Not being a narcissist, I have never found my naked self appealing," he observed calmly. He might currently be held somewhere beneath the level of worms, but there was no requirement to admit that to another soul. But then, Magnussen had no soul. So no contest.

"You remember this?" Magnussen asked as casually as if they had shared an ice cream on a beach. Which was not what the photographs showed.

Naked. Sleeping. Not sleeping. Posed. Fur rug. Bed. Pool. Naked. Doing. Naked…..

 _Oh God. OhGodohGod._

"Imperfectly," he admitted. "I rather think I was off my face at the time. Thank you for the experience."

"You are very cool. I expected you to be angry at the very least."

"Only in as much as I understand sex is best experienced when conscious. Has necrophilia always been your thing?"

"Not at all. But the chance presented itself." Magnussen smirked. Sherlock struggled to stop his hands reaching out and throttling. "And it seemed the safest approach when dealing with someone as dangerous as you. For the first time, anyway."

Sherlock lifted his head at that. Oh. Finally. A tiny advantage. An admission of fear. Physical fear. Of him. The tiniest of levers from which to move the world.

"A compliment. And achieved when I was not at my best. So thank you."

"What is your best?"

"Depends on the incentive."

Magnussen stepped back and roared with laughter.

"You feel you have the upper hand? Even with this? All these photographs to incriminate you and everyone around you?"

"You still make the basic error of assuming I care about these people. About myself. That I am even open to your pressure."

"You are a rare challenge to me, certainly. But that, surely, is half the fun?"

He was excited. Eyes wide and flaring, colour in his cheeks for once. A hand that twitched, wanted desperately to reach out and touch. A smile trying to break free.

"How?"

"If you do not do what I want I shall publish these photographs of your friends and your brother. I shall publish these ten highly charged and really quite beautiful homoerotic photographs of you - perhaps you are unaware I started my publishing career in pornographic magazines? Which I still own and still control.

"Once they have appeared in my Scandinavian magazines they will then, of course, be redirected to the British press, Which does not like that sort of behaviour from their cherished public icons. And quite rightly so. The British are a frigid race; and you normally appear so much the admirable upright and frigid Englishman, so the photographs will cause a sensation. Oh yes.

"Would you really survive that scandal, Mr Holmes? Would your brother? Would any English male of quality and position even want to employ you any more? Or even bear to be in a room alone with you ever again? And even if they did, would anyone ever forget that vision of you, naked and, shall we say….performing something other than criminal deduction? Think about it."

"I can take that risk. People who know me know sex is not my remit. …."

"But that is not quite true, is it? Even without the photographs. Which tell another story."

Sherlock's blood turned to ice; he felt the crystal spears spike in his veins. This was horror. His breathing stopped as if he had been kicked in the chest by a horse. Magnussen saw the reaction, and Sherlock watched him revel in that; a reaction from the great detective at last, Exult in his vindication and victory!

"I have no idea what you mean."

"But of course you do, Mr Holmes. I am not stupid. And nor are you. Not really." He laughed, put out a hand, and trailed a finger along the line of Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock braced himself against anger and revulsion and stood fast.

"There is a rumour - nothing more - as yet. The sort of unexpected rumour that is never without foundation. A rumour that somewhere on the dark web are other photographs of you, that indicate in your youth you were far from the sexless automaton you now like to present yourself to be.

"That you were a high class tom, in fact. And if _that_ got out you certainly would lose your trust, all your security clearances, and so all your consulting and detection work."

"No."

"Your quiet control is superhuman and otherwise admirable, but it does not fool me, Sherlock."

He purred and spun out the name with offensive intimacy. And laughed when the consulting detective shut his eyes briefly.

"If that information is out there, I shall find it. And I shall publish it. That is my job, after all."

"Good luck with that." He squared his shoulders as if bored. " So. Is that all? Now tell me why you so want to destroy me."

And Magnussen shook his head, patted his arm, and actually laughed.

"I do not want to destroy you, Mr Holmes. Dear me, no. Quite the reverse. I want to encourage you to blossom. By owning you and, as the saying goes, expand the brand. To control you. To have all your cases and secrets at my fingertips so I can use them. Use you. And so I will own and control you, because that brings me closer to my ultimate quarry. The heart of the British government. And you do not need me to say who that is, now do you?"

"As I said: is that all?"

"Not in the least. You see, I have my sights on you, and I will own you. I will own you, and all you will do for me to keep my hands off your dear brother. For a time, anyway. But there - that is the professional Charles Augustus Magnussen speaking. Can you tell? I always get what I want, and you will be a wonderful asset to me."

He paused, waited until the eyes of Sherlock Holmes came up to meet his across the silence.

"But there is also the private Charles Augustus Magnussen to consider." The voice dropped an octave into a deeper and more intimate register "Not many people know that man. But for you I make the exception, And that private man wants the private you. To possess you. For I must tell you a single taste of you is not enough, Mr Holmes. Not half enough."

And then he smiled. And all the horrors that Sherlock had kept down beneath his feet for all the days since Appledore, and had haunted him for all the years since he was a lost and desperate teenager, rose up to try to drown and drown and drown him.

Sherlock Holmes heard his worst fears articulated. Yet for them finally to be spoken and taken out of his head, that delivered a sort of release, and allowed him to face the worst of himself, to acknowledge what he must now defeat.

Not just Magnussen. Something within himself he had always needed to recognise and defeat, but never had. His past, his youth, his mistakes. His pathetic juvenile bid for survival and reaching towards humanity.

But enough data and incentive now to begin to seek the solution to the problem; his problem. He pulled in a hard breath, concentrated on keeping the reflex smooth and level, his face relaxed and bland, to wear the quizzical half smile he knew annoyed Magnussen so much.

"Well, that is all very interesting, but your winning hand still does not seem to be a royal flush to me. Not an unbeatable hand," he responded, voice so quiet it came out as little beyond a whisper.

The Danish newspaper magnate smiled a broad and lazy smile.

"But I have not yet turned over all my cards, Mr Holmes. I still have two more at my disposal. One will be the certainty of the royal flush. And one will be the kicker. Just look at what I have to show you now….."

From a blue folder in front of him he took two - just two - prints.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked. Teasing, confident, in control.

The first photograph spun towards Sherlock, and he caught it. Looked despite his fears. It showed…it showed…..of all the things he might have anticipated, it showed himself and Mary Morstan pulling John Watson from the flames beneath a Guy Fawkes bonfire in a city square.

The motorcycle they had commandeered was there, lying on it's side, adults and children watching, surprised and horror stricken. Mary's ludicrous bright red coat. And John Watson drugged and baffled and terrified, with twigs in his hair and scratches on his face.

Sherlock Holmes could still taste the wood smoke, feel the November chill, the sweat of fear and effort on his face. Smell the wool of the Belstaff as it singed beneath the flames as he hauled John Watson out from underneath the fire. John. The thing he had both saved from and had lost in those flames. A friendship that had once burned bright with warmth and light but was now just grey dust and scattered embers…

 _Move! Move! John! John! John?_

"You did this? You were responsible?" he could hear his voice rising in pitch and fought to bring it back down to normal.

"Why ever would you think that of me? Because I could? Oh, I had people watching what happened; I have had people watching you for some time. The thing is, you see, your little soldier friend is very vulnerable to kidnap and abuse. He lacks your….shall we say….feral survival mentality.

"I can take your Dr Watson any time I like. In case you are interested. Just so you know. He is my Plan B."

"That was Mark and Marie Dixon Carr, your thugs on duty there." It was not a question.

"Oh, is that their names? I forget. Mere employees, you see. Like the rest of the world. Mere functionaries."

"Aren't we all?" Sherlock asked automatically, a rhetorical question with no answer.

"You and your circle? I think not in your case. You have discernment. Chose acolytes slightly above the usual status of cattle. Which makes you - all your circle - of great interest to me." He nodded and eased closer "Is your world reeling yet, Sherlock? Is it? OK. My final toss of the cards, in this round of play at least."

He paused, looked at the last photograph in his hand.

"This is one you will not be expecting. This is the most dangerous revelation I can make of them all. This will not just lead to disgust or dishonour. This one - if I choose to reveal it - will bring death and destruction in it's wake. This is someone who is bad. Very bad. Naughty. You will want to see."

He took two steps to close harder back into Sherlock's personal space. Lifted his hand with the photograph in it. Blinked hard, showed his teeth in a smile that was victory, irony and determination. But not humour.

Charles Augustus Magnussen flipped the photograph for the consulting detective to see. Enjoyed the horror now filling the younger man's eyes, the way he rocked back on his heels, the way his eyes and face shocked blank.

The photograph was of Mary Morstan.

For a moment the world stuttered and tilted on it's axis. And yet. He knew. Had always known. Hadn't he? Always known? That there was something dark and dangerous about Mary? Something secret? Something that had triggered the fear, had lifted the hackles of Sherlock Holmes all those months ago in a restaurant. When he had not even been concentrating on her, but on John Watson.

Had seen, even then and with no concentration whatsoever, had seen and sensed something Dr John Watson refused to see and sense. Well, love was blind, wasn't it?

But Sherlock Holmes was not blind. Not really. Only wilfully blind. Wilfully blind to ensure peace and happiness and the security of others for once. Specifically, for John Watson. And was not blind any more.

So he did not argue or rant. Shout or deny. Just absorbed what he saw. Dealt with it in his own head. A photograph of a younger Mary, darker hair, shorter style, completely different body language. Strong, dangerous, defiant, asexual. Professional. And nothing about her showing the caring, responsive style of the nurse she currently professed to be. And which had fooled John Watson.

"Thank you for the information." Mechanically.

"What do you plan to do with it?"

"Nothing. She is not my wife, nor my responsibility."

"No. But she is John Watson's wife. His responsibility. I have a whole file on this woman, Mr Holmes. You really do not want to know. I will tell you all about her. But that is a treat for another time. She may not be your responsibility. But John Watson is your responsibility."

"No longer. Not my assistant, not my flat mate. Not my friend. That was then. This is now."

"Come, Mr Holmes. Even you have loyalties. Even your great analytical brain has….attachments, shall we say? Who do you want to save from me, from what I can do? And how would you like to save them?"

Magnussen laughed, and sat down in one of the dining chairs surrounding the table upon which lay so many photographs, so many secrets.

Sherlock Holmes's brain came back on line. The shock had short circuited everything for almost half a minute. Now it started again, processing at hyper drive. Magnussen, watching so carefully, saw only a tremor in one hand, several fast blinks.

"None of these people matter to me. Not Dr Hooper nor Mrs Haig. Not the Smallwoods or their associates. Not Dr or Mrs Watson. And certainly not my brother. I save only myself."

"I thought as much." Magnussen almost clapped his hands together in glee. "Not superhuman at all, then. Just an ordinary man. So what are you suggesting as your bargaining ploy? That may delay you working for me as I intend?"

Sherlock thought fast. He had to deal a hand, poker play for time, appeal to the only part of Magnussen that was human. And he still had to get to Appledore to destroy. Words filtered through slowly and with care.

"I think your victory over me is way too easy. What you think is your victory, anyway. You still do not believe I am callous enough to fail to put my associates before myself."

"Brother. Friends. And probable lover…." Magnussen demurred quietly. Sherlock Holmes ignored him and continued:

"So here's the deal. My rules. Now you have showed your hand. A game of detection with me. For me." Sherlock leant forward, eyes and body language implacable. "Listen to me. I mean what I say. Not for them, your pawns. For. Me. A tantalising enough challenge for you? Will you rise to that challenge, Mr Magnussen?"

The charismatic and tantalising Sherlock Holmes was back, and in control as Magnussen frowned. Froze.

"I tell you this - something you really already know - that I exhibit no human weakness. And as that is so, all your homework, all of these photographs, are a waste of time, mine and yours. Because none of them - _not one of them_ \- affect me whatsoever.

"If this game is on , and if winning is survival, I shall be the one to survive. Because I decide it, because I am the best. Understand?"

Sherlock Holmes drew himself up to his full height and leaned in to the chair, his arms on the chair arms, trapping the Dane within his arms to present domination and confidence to Charles Augustus Magnussen. Despite everything.

"But I will be honest with you. More honest than you have been with me. So here is my game for you to play. Hide and seek. I have a weakness I prefer stays secret.

"You find what that is, and then tell me. If you find that secret, and only if you find that secret, I will admit it, and then you will indeed have the power you want over me. I will admit the truth, and I will not resist.

"Give you my forfeit. Is that a great enough game for you? Is it a deal?"

"Is what a deal?" Magnussen looked puzzled. Frowned and stared at Sherlock Holmes, wondering how the consulting detective had turned the tables on him.

"If I win, my circle and I walk away from all this blackmail nonsense. But if you win…if you win…"

Charles Augustus Magnussen had for many years thought nothing could surprise him. He had seen and done it all. He understood people and their motives, and how to twist people into his power and control. And he knew how to buy them, their stories, their weaknesses, their trusts. And how to betray.

But now a Sherlock Holmes he had thought defeated had somehow turned the tables. And Magnussen was intrigued. Willing to take part in the game and to gamble. Wanting to win.

Sherlock Holmes stepped back, and Magnussen felt himself impelled to stand, get to his feet and lock eyes at a level. Sherlock Holmes was always full of surprises. He took Magnussen by surprise now.

 _Control, control, control. The last toss of the coin. Play it. Do it, you despicable fool. Pay the price for all the mistakes made getting to this point. To endgame. Take courage in both hands now. And then take Magnussen….._

He swallowed hard and squared his shoulders. Raised long slim hands to trap Magnussen's face between them and tipped the narrow ascetic face down to his. Pressed his mouth onto Magnussen's with a slow, deliberate slickness. Forced the older man's mouth open with teeth and tongue for a deep and probing kiss until the Dane could not breathe and floundered upwards with his hands to clutch the younger man's wrists to try to free his mouth from this unexpected and shocking possession, to simply draw in air.

 _This time it is my turn. How do_ _ **you**_ _like this treatment?_

Sherlock Holmes' unique opaline eyes were inches from Magnussen's pale blue ones. Which blinked rapidly. The younger man let his empty eyes fill with warmth, waited until Magnussen spotted the change, then tilted his head to the side to breath with tantalisingly softness into Magnussen's right ear:

"Find my secret and you can have me, Charles, A weekend. All yours, To do as you wish. All your fantasies in one parcel, one weekend. I will show you…what I cannot show you when I am drugged."

The words spoken in that low baritone purr, so sincerely and deliberately - was not at all what the Dane had expected to hear. He had expected fear, flurry, frenzy; he was adept at dealing with and enjoying that reaction, a power play that always thrilled him But now Magnussen felt a different frisson pass through him he could not at that moment define.

And then Sherlock Holmes subtly moved his right hand, and Magnussen felt his ear lobe being gently caressed. The touch made him shudder, and Sherlock felt that reaction's betrayal, laughed small and low in his throat.

"A weekend in the country," he purred. "Together. Just you. And me. And your imagination. At Appledore."

And then he was gone. He turned away at speed and walked away. Just walked away.

Magnussen sat down heavily in the nearest chair. That had gone….not quite how he had expected. But better than he had expected. Had it not? And yet now….now anything and everything was possible. Anything!

He heard the lift doors open and close. And on the thirty second floor of CAM Headquarters, all was, for one long moment, silent and so very still.

TO BE CONTINUED…..


	19. Chapter 19

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 19: 'The Future's In Our Hands….'

 **NB** : With this chapter we reach the action as depicted in the final episode of _Sherlock_ Series Three, _His Last Vow._

There will be at least another ten chapters, and although they are formed by, and adhere to, the TV plotline, it is my intention to tell as much of the story as possible in an alternative form, through lost scenes, in reference to the final shooting script, and through Sherlock PoV.

There will be, of necessity, an element of reading the story that was depicted on screen, but I intend to try and keep that to a minimum and only where necessary to tell and advance and deepen the tale so it will still be comprehensible to anyone who may not have seen the show. Please bear with me; the last eighteen chapters have simply led us to this point.

If this chapter and most of the ones that immediately follow seem top heavy with TV episode content, it is because this is all not only cracking TV that has dialogue and action that should not be squandered, but also critical baseline for the rest of the plot and the relativities of the characters with each other for the story to develop as it should.

So now read on!

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Langdale Pike paused at the steps of the Underground station to pick up a copy of the Evening Standard: something to turn his eyes toward on the four stops home from work.

It had been a long day, and his head buzzed with exhaustion. He shook it to clear it and told himself he was getting too old for this game. Journalism was getting to be a young man's sport, and too rapidly new tech for oldies like him.

He gave a rueful grin to himself and spared a glance round at the other twilight travellers. A gaggle of girls going up west for a show, an elderly lady with an overnight bag on wheels, a man and his son on a mission. Someone hailed a taxi behind him, and by his side he could hear the constant drone of a homeless man: 'spare some change…..a few coppers for a cuppa tea…. A bit of silver…." rasping estuary English with the slurry crack to it of an addict. Except suddenly the voice changed as Pike passed him by and whispered, in a rich baritone: "Dale!" with quiet urgency.

Without his face changing, or showing the jolt of contact, he turned his eyes smoothly to the person sitting on a slice of cardboard under his elbow, a polystyrene cup in in hand seeded with a few coppers he rattled encouragingly.

The figure was hunched over, arms around knees, in track suit bottoms that looked too large and a filthy dark blue hoodie pulled up over his head, even though it was a mild summer evening. Grimy unshaven face, greasy dark hair scraped back. Grey green eyes that flared in his direction.

"Sher…!" a surprised sound, throttled as soon as it began, due to the sharp: "No!" that was hissed his way.

"She…sheer bloody cheek, you beggars! Always on the make!" he exploded; then a quiet: "What?"

"Rant. Then regret it, toss me some coins, take a few photos on your phone….."

So he did. He couldn't remember what came out, but it served to make all the other travellers give them a wide berth and not listen to the embarrassing exchange.

"Story for you," whispered Sherlock Holmes. "I'll phone to give you the nod on the exclusive. You'll need these photos. Sherlock Holmes back on the sauce again. Addicted to coke again. Got that?"

"Er…yes? Er….thank you?"

"Good. File it ready to run when I say. Exclusive," said the consulting detective before shuffling to his feet, saying a few choice words a London docker would be proud of, and staggering away.

Langdale Pike watched him lurch through the crowd - a loping stagger people recoiled from as he passed - then disappear. Looked down at his phone to make sure he had not imagined it. And yes - he had three photos of Sherlock: begging on his pitch, hand out for money: with the hood thrust back and suddenly recognisable as himself despite the filth; a final photo as he shambled away.

Dale Pike dragged a hand over his face. Ooh, that did not bode well for someone! Bloody good story, though. He shook his head, grinned to himself, and headed home.

o0o0o0o

Sherlock Holmes had walked back to Baker Street from his meeting with Magnussen via a contact in Goodge Street. Via a long, meandering route that he could neither have later described nor repeated. Walked for over two hours; more to kill time, calm his brain, flatten his anger, exhaust himself. The adrenalin overload of his confrontation with Magnussen had been the reverse of invigorating.

The stop in Goodge Street was all he could remember of the long walk home because the evidence of that pause was in his pockets.

Of everything that had been thrown at him, all he could think of was Mary Watson-nee-Morstan: and all he could think was I-knew-it-I-knew-it-I-knew-it like a stuck record. Which was a pathetic sort of mantra, and no help at all.

But now he at least had seen and knew the worst, and he also knew what Magnussen was after. Himself.

What a ridiculous trophy for anyone to desire. What a ludicrous….the man was mad. An ego maniac. Obsessed. Between the abduction, the tracker inserted under his skin as if he was no more than a micro chipped dog, the sudden lurch of knowledge, confirmation of rape that had been a woolly suspicion and was now a paralysing, humiliating, demeaning awareness screaming ever louder inside his head demanding to be acknowledged, clogging his synapses and his objectivity and swamping his very being with unwanted and unbidden emotion….the anger that had been tormenting him ever since Serbia was making his brain itch. He was losing self control.

Everything about this case now appalled him and it had become, as he had predicted, way too close, too personal, revealed too much of himself, and threatened to exhume a long buried past he kept pushing down and try to drown.

Or to burn. All and everything from his past brought out to burn, finally, on a funeral pyre. His funeral pyre. Body and soul.

And yet. Pull yourself together, Holmes! This exposure also offered the only shaft of daylight finding it's way into the darkness of the case and of his soul. A darkness that had to be there as a tool to be used without remorse; to allow the only way it was possible - had ever been possible - to have the leverage to push the case forward. Even though his heart quailed at the thought.

Or would have done, if he allowed the very idea of having a heart credence or head room. So. Control. Concentrate. Use the situation. Work forward and, if it had to exist, to use everything from the past to it's maximum.

Now, thinking on his feet, he had given Magnusson a very personal challenge. Offered the only bait and the only delaying tactic and temptation he had to offer the man that could ever work to get him inside Appledore and wreak havoc - himself.

He had presented the man with the temptation of a proper challenge and the very personal result he desired so much at the end of it. Sherlock would manipulate Magnussen's apparent victory in that challenge, because this was still the only option available to get into Appledore. The best chance he was ever going to get to gain access, to win and destroy.

For the only way he would be able to find those vaults with their damaging secrets, get into them, and destroy their contents would be at Magnussen's invitation. Because Magnussen never normally invited visitors to Appledore. Only when he thought he was going to get exactly the reward he wanted in return - which was Sherlock Holmes.

To reach the house and the vaults he needed to release the dam in his heart and mind that contained all the things within himself he kept locked away and hidden, had always determined never to face. And yet now use them. Oh, well.

The end justified the means. Yes, it did. For this would save not only the Smallwoods and the Sondersuns, it would save anyone and everyone else touched by Magnussen's attentions. It would also - and much more importantly - save John and Mary Watson as well. And also Mycroft. Yes.

So Sherlock give Magnussen a little assistance along the way to make sure he took the bait and played the game. The consulting detective as game board, pawn and prize. The stakes were high, the results worth the stake. Worth abasing himself to do whatever would be needed to win this game.

Despite his cool risk assessment and his chance of success, he remained confident he had not only isolated Magnussen's weak spot, but had exploited it, finally managed to roll the dice in his own favour at last.

He could not help feeling angry and distressed by the turn of events, however. Excusing himself, was he, for his mistakes and failures on the way? No. All this misery to come could have been easily avoided.

If Mary had confided in him in the first place! If she had trusted him with her past, given him permission to expunge that past, whatever it was, and to make her safe forever as she entered her new life as Mrs John Watson.

Because he would have done that for her. Yes, he would. Of course he would - how had she ever not known that? Doubted it even now? If not for Mary alone, then more importantly he would have done it for John Watson. It was the least he could do for his friend, for his friend's wife. It could have been their wedding present…

 _To John and Mary I give….no, not a toaster or a set of saucepans….but freedom, identity, clear and open minds. And safety. Protection forever, so help me God…._

Well, he had promised. Vowed. And if he did nothing else with his miserable life, he was going to keep that promise, honour that vow. Or never be able to live with himself again; when living with himself was hard enough already.

And now, so very soon , despite all his efforts, it was already time to deliver on the promise he had made at the wedding. Keep the first and last vow he had ever made to another human being. Two human beings. Three human beings…..yes, of course. There was also the baby to consider.

 _Oh, Christ, John. What have you gotten us all into with your pathetic quest for such a little and humdrum real life? Your quest for that impossible goal called happiness? Did you never realise that stupid ordinary human ambition was never going to work?_

He walked on to try to exhaust and calm himself. To quieten nerves flayed by his experience with Magnussen. A conflict even harder than he had been expecting, with too many revelations he had not anticipated nor been prepared for.

Walked to kill the sentiment and emotion and self pity that was threatening to overwhelm and undermine him. The tears that were threatening to fall. Not emotion, no not that: just a safety valve of release from all the pressure, that was all. Too much pressure.

He had taken on Lady Smallwood's challenge because he had known there was no-one else who could do it - or would even try. Because why else had she come to his door? Unless he was already her last hope?

The game was on. But he had long feared this was a task beyond his ability; that he could not do this, not finish this case he had started with such confidence and determination and which had turned out to be too large, too complex, and which was dragging all the vulnerabilities he always denied having within himself up to the surface.

What a fool he had been to rise to Elizabeth Smallwood's challenge! To risk all to save Mycroft by saving Jack Smallwood! He knew the mantra, said it himself all the time, frequently to anyone who dared to start believing in his infallibility and his pose of arrogance - "I always get something wrong." Well, this was a big something wrong. Did no-one ever listen to him? Really listen to what he was really saying?

And never was there a something as big and as close as this. Were his fears and his past uniting now to stop him rising to the challenge? His flaws dragging him down too deep into this intrigue? Down into a past he always denied as a part of himself and had closed a barn door on years ago? Closed and locked and barred. Never opened, never thought about, never examined.

The past is a foreign country. They do things differently there. Indeed so. And they did. He did.

How could he, how dare he, take this case forward to it's logical conclusion? The conclusion he himself had formulated, the only prize he envisaged Magnussen reaching for, hoping for, angling for. A rare personal prize, not a professional prize, for the ultimate blackmailer, businessman and manipulator.

For once a little voice of doubt whispered in his ear and he could not resist half listening. Was this going to be the case that always threatened, the final one that was too much to handle because of his first and last vow? That would break down the edifice, the artificial and empty edifice that was the Sherlock Holmes he had constructed so carefully and hid behind?

The fear and self doubt had overtaken him now, and was running ahead of him, turning back from inside the corridor in the Mind Palace that led to mockery humiliation and death and was grinning at him, grinning at him as it ran on in the lead, and taunted, pulled him on even as it took the air from his lungs and the energy from his limbs….

So Lestrade following him up the stairs within moments of returning home was something he could happily have done without.

"Just popped by on the way home to tell you both the Dixon Carrs are inside on holding charges for the time being; that there will be more charges as more stuff gets revealed. So no-one is going to get out and try and shoot you or Sondersun again. Thought you'd like to know," was his greeting as he came to the top of the stairs. And again the vague thought came into Sherlock's mind: 'I must get that front door key back ….privacy…..'

"And to see how y'are, of course." Lestrade grinned reassuringly at him.

"Why? Has John Watson put you up to this?"

Sherlock Holmes lifted his bowed head, looked up and spoke to Lestrade, looked back at him through the multi bevelled mirror over the fireplace, where he had been standing gazing down into the empty hearth, hands clutching the mantel and leaning forward into it as if for support. His voice was harsh and unusually suspicious.

The detective inspector stopped in mid stride and looked hard at the man in front of him. Elegant as ever in bespoke grey suit and dark blue shirt, he looked his normal collected and impassive self. But Lestrade had known Sherlock Holmes for many years and saw something more than defeat and exhaustion in the angle of the head, the tense inward hunch of the shoulders.

"Why would he? Just because you won't talk to him? He knows you better than that," Lestrade returned brightly.

"These days? He doesn't know me at all."

The low and bitter vibration made Lestrade look at him sideways, frown to see the consulting detective put one hand to his eyes and watch the muscles of the face contract behind that hand.

"You look tired….." Lestrade ventured carefully. It was almost impossible to make any sort of personal remark to Sherlock normally without an acerbic return, but the hushed and bitten off reply - "I am…." - stopped him in his tracks.

"Then siddown before you fall down. I'll make us both a cuppa. That'll set you right."

He moved softly into the kitchen as he had done just a few days before. Mechanically made the tea, but all his senses on alert and listening for the man in the next room, expecting him to speak. Who would normally be talking through the wall to him at the speed of an electric typewriter. Questioning, laughing, expounding theories…but was now silent and, it seemed, unmoving.

Back in the living room Sherlock appeared to be sitting collectedly in his grey leather armchair, feet pulled back under the seat, hands hooked on the ends of the chair arms. He seemed to be looking at the Union Jack cushion on the different chair where John Watson's old overstuffed armchair used to be, and did not react when Lestrade came in.

Lestrade put the tea on the little occasional table by Sherlock's right hand and sat down heavily in his eyeline, in the empty chair.

There was no movement, no words.

"Tea." Lestrade said unnecessarily.

No response

"You OK?"

No response.

"Hurt?"

No response..

"Poorly?"

No response.

"What is it then?"

Nothing.

"Want a case?"

Nothing.

That was the point at which Lestrade sat forward and started paying attention.

He knew Sherlock Holmes so well - better than anyone else most of the time, even better than John Watson, although Lestrade never dwelt on that fact - that he often forgot that Sherlock was actually merely human like everyone else. Was more attuned to the genius Sherlock, more accepting of the mad invulnerability, the inspired and eccentric behaviour, the superhuman physical endurance and mental capabilities. The rush and inspiration and power of the younger man.

Except just sometimes. Like now. When the past crowded in on the present and the detective inspector remembered,,,,, pain and panic and stress. Damage and drugs, how often the nearness of death and fear had come to overpowering him. Life and lives saved and won and depths reached, sounded, delivered from. Illness and overdose and the long memory of a proud and pretty manchild hiding from his destiny out on the streets, hiding in plain sight and turning tricks to survive. Sex and drugs but precious little rock and roll…..

"Sherlock. It's Greg. Look at me."

Nothing moved.

"Look at me, Sherlock. it's getting scary here outside your head."

Five minutes. Ten. He deliberately sipped tea until it was gone. Leant forward and waved a hand across the blank face. No reaction.

Making a decision he flipped a number on speed dial. Spoke without preamble.

"Need your advice. Got a ….punter….here. Conscious. Breathing normal, reactions normal, eyes reactive. Except not responding to conversation or stimulus. Sort of clenched. Like awake but asleep?"

Listened to something. Nodded several times. Replied.

"Yeah, well I've heard of dissociative fugue, not sure I've ever seen it. Wandering? Well he - the guy in question - has just been out, walking about for ages by the look of his wet shoes and damp turnups, so I dunno. Can be caused by psychotropic substances? Oh, can it?" He laughed. "Could well be. Hang on…."

Leant forward, tapped jacket pockets, reached into them and came out with six small vials and four small bags of unidentified powder. Tutted, took them and put them out of reach on the desk. There was no reaction from the owner of the pockets.

"Yeah. As I said, could well be. Said substances in possession, but no sign of using. No, I don't intend to prosecute for possession. That's not what this is about, Doctor." Listened again.

"Should be short lived? OK, that's reassuring. Caused by? " Listened again. "Oh, lovely. Stress, anger, fear, pain, emotional duress, trauma especially as a result of past experience revisited? Well, take your pick in this instance; but all of them I'd reckon. There's usually plenty of all that to go on, thanks for the reassurance. Yes, I do know some people react very badly to being faced with police attention. No, this is not my fault, you cheeky sod….Yes, OK, will let him ride it out. Give it some time yet before I start thinking of calling an ambulance or something."

Listened again and pulled a face, looked up at the ceiling.

"Why would you think I'm talking about Sherlock, John? No, I've not seen him at the Met, or even at Bart's, not for days. Haven't had him on a case today. No, I don't think there is anything wrong with his phone. If I get the chance I'll tell him you are trying to contact. No, don't go round - I know for a fact he isn't in just now. No, I don't know where he is. He's just - out. OK mate, thanks. See you around."

He turned off his phone and put it back into his pocket.

"Just listen to me - I'm telling lies for you now, you prat. Why won't you see him? Talk to him? I wish to God you would tell me what's going on. Because I am getting seriously worried about you."

He looked at the empty shell in front of him, checked his watch. He could spare a little more time. So got up, made himself another cup of tea and sat and drank it.

He could tell this was not the usual comatose consulting detective that sprawled full length on the sofa for hours on end. This was something else. He sat quietly and just looked. Sherlock was in front of him, blank before some sort of internal ferocity raging under his skin that Lestrade could not plumb, his body tense, knuckles of the hands on the chair arm white. He was even paler than normal and his cheekbones looked freshly sharpened, which Lestrade always took to be bad signs.

"I don't know what's wrong with you, and until I know, I can't help. You were in physical pain the last time I came, and you are in some sort of mental pain this time. Yeah, I see that. Just unbend, you stupid bastard, and let it out. I'm not going to tell anyone, now am I? Never have before, have I? Where ever you are, Sherlock, come back. Now. You might not need any of us, but by God, we all need you."

He made a decision, got up again, went quietly into the bathroom and emptied the little bags down the toilet, cracked open the vials, poured out their contents into the toilet bowl and flushed away the contents. Watched the water swirl and clear and the cistern quieten. Wrapped the rubbish and empty bottles in an old sandwich wrapper he found on the kitchen table and dropped everything into the bin with a terrible sense of sadness and the waste that could have been done to that big and beautiful brain with those substances swirling around inside it.

Looked back into the sitting room. Nothing had moved or changed. He shook his head and sighed, stepped forward and unfolded the old check blanket from the back of the chair that was not John Watson's and wrapped it around Sherlock Holmes, prising the set hands from the chair arms and putting them under the blanket, carefully tucking it in gently at the sides as if around a child.

"I'm not going to do or say anything about those drugs. Except 'drugs? What drugs? I don't know anything about drugs'. And so neither do you. You pillock. You know the rules. "

He was turning away, about to leave, feeling useless and helpless and unnecessary, and needing to get home to eat and sleep and feel human again after another hectic day, when a hand crept from underneath the blanket, reaching for his wrist but not quite touching it.

"I wish…." began a low, rusty voice. "… wish you hadn't done that. I need. The oblivion."

"Oh, hello. Welcome back." Lestrade hid dizzying relief behind a cheery manner. "Whaddayaknow? The world's been turning without you, mate. Want to play catch up?"

"No."

"Tea's gone cold. I'll make another."

When he came back with yet more cups of tea Sherlock had moved a little, both arms out from the blanket, hands to his face and splayed in front of his eyes.

"Tea," Lestrade said again, with a distinct feeling of déjà vu. Replacing the cold mug with a fresh one on the side table.

As he glanced across Sherlock Holmes to position the mug he saw the spread bony fingers shining, clear liquid leaking between them.

"There's something a bit wrong here," Lestrade said as calmly as he could. "Should I ring your brother?"

"No!" Despite being muffled by the hands the voice came out high pitched. Wrong.

"Not Mycroft. And please do not suggest John. No-one can help. Not even you…..I'm sorry."

A deep breath shuddered in. The head bent, hands fluttered a little.

"It's just reaction, Physical reaction." said that strange, dislocated voice Lestrade did not properly recognise. "Shock." And then words he could only say to Lestrade and be understood. " My past. Just got up and bit me."

Lestrade was quiet for a moment. Something only he knew, then. Nobody else.

Something that had happened while Mycroft Holmes had been expelled from his little brother's life. Something John Watson did not know, something Sherlock would be ashamed to tell his friend.

Something that had happened when a very young Sherlock had found his life and his responsibilities too much to bear, then. When he had run away from his pain and his past, out onto the streets alone and into a blind and baseless future. When Lestrade first knew him.

Without knowing exactly what Sherlock was referring to, or daring to ask, Lestrade simply replied:

"The past has a habit of doing that to us mere mortals. Jumping up and biting. Usually when you least expect it. This is your turn."

"Hmmn." The consulting detective pushed the heels of his hands hard into his eye sockets as if to clear them. Lowered his hands and looked at Lestrade through red rimmed, bloodshot and bottomless grey green eyes.

"Once. When I tried to kill myself. You saved me."

Lestrade's memory flashed back through the years to a vision that remained as clear as day even now, back to a desperate boy on a London rooftop. Alone, in despair, thinking the only solution to his troubles was a line of drugs and oblivion. Lestrade's tongue stuck to his teeth suddenly and he could not speak; or even knew what he might have said in reply.

"Why did you do that? Why bother?" It was a genuine question, asked without guile or irony.

"Don't think you are anything special. I'm so soft hearted I wouldn't let anyone drown a kitten in a bucket."

"Wouldn't dream….." was the reply. A tiny ghost of a smile.

"I'm told confusion, memory problems, anger, distress, are all signs of recovery from fugue. And fugue comes as a result of huge stress, often because of facing past trauma. That you, today, is it?"

No reply, just a small flicker of the eyes.

"Yeah, mate. That's always you. Fighting for the world to stop you fighting yourself. Deflecting pain, trying to be superhuman."

Lestrade's voice was very soft. "I know you Sherlock. Better than anyone else, I saw you grow into that shell of high functioning sociopath you wear so well, and I know why you do it. That's why I let you get away with murder."

The strange pale eyes came up, focussed finally.

"Luckier with you than I deserve. Do I ever say?"

"You don't need to, you fool. Listen to me. I saved you then because you were worth saving. And don't open your mouth to argue with me about that. I knew when I fought to save you on that rooftop you were worth it, worth all the lives you were would save by living. All the lives you have saved since. Will save. Your justification for…." he hesitated. "For going on."

The younger man shook his head.

"Don't know if I still can. Not what I was." Scared, hopeless eyes came up to his then for the briefest look, and Lestrade struggled to hide the shock. "I came back from the dead to find my life changed. Everything changed. Everything except Mycroft. And you," He smiled at Lestrade then, that tiny, honest and boyish smile that appeared so rarely.

"I'm angry. Hurt. All the time. I need to go back to - not - feeling. Like I was before. Need not to feel again. Not be human. Cannot bear emotions. Swamping me."

"Welcome to the real world," Lestrade shrugged wryly.

"No, you don't understand. I can't think _and_ feel. Feeling short circuits my brain. I hate it. And I have to think. Not be distracted by such pathetic…" he choked off the words.

"What can I do, Sherlock? What's happened? Tell me."

"You can't do…I can't tell. Not anyone."

"Is this one of Mycroft's cases? Government stuff?"

"Not Mycroft. Don't tell Mycroft!"

The sudden edge of hysteria in the voice scared Lestrade witless. Not since Baskerville had he seen such a collapse of the construct that was Sherlock Holmes.

"Mycroft must not know! He hates me now; more than normal. Everyone hates me. Whatever I do to try and make things right turns out wrong. John hates me…so what's the fucking point of it all, Lestrade?"

"I don't know what to say to you, mate. Nobody hates you. You should know that." He got to his feet. "Put everything down to a bad day and put your problem aside until you are thinking more clearly again. Step back a bit, get a fresh perspective. That's what I would do."

He rubbed his hands over his face in frustration. Spoke from instinct. Knowing the only way to bring Sherlock back to himself was not to coddle or sympathise or be gentle, but to push him forward, push hard, further into his own superhuman expectations of himself.

"Look! Come with me. Back to the Yard. The best thing is something to distract you. Get everything in proportion. I've a nice double murder in Crystal Palace for you. Right up your street…."

Sherlock Holmes looked up and grinned then, eyes bright in the face of a ghost.

"You know the way to a man's heart, Lestrade," he said.

Wobbled to his feet from beneath the blanket and followed his detective inspector down the stairs and out of the house.

For Lestrade was right. Distraction would help. A new challenge, a new case. To put distance between him and the real case. The real final problem.

o0o0o0o0o

He had thought it would be a three, but the deaths of Corinne Connors and her next door neighbour Susan Palmer turned out to be a seven. It involved a supercar theft and smuggling ring, a missing Persian cat and container traffic through the port of Felixstowe. The court case that ensued was a sensation, featured two famous television presenters and a soap opera TV star but did not involve even the name of Sherlock Holmes.

It kept him busy for four hectic days, centred him and brought him back to himself. Something strong, simple, detached, easily solved. He and Lestrade shared fish and chips, and on the final evening, a curry. Neither of them mentioned the near-meltdown again.

Having cleared the double murder and with a line of villains, the two murderers and a port official in custody, Sherlock's part in the affair was over, and when they parted at the door of Lestrade's office, the detective inspector made a rare point of shaking the hand of Sherlock Holmes in front of all his team.

"Thank you, Sherlock. I know what an effort this case has been for you. But you got the right result. As always. Remember that. And remember where I am."

The warm smile faded. A terse nod accepted what was being spoken beneath the words.

"Remember you owe me oblivion," the consulting detective replied. Still serious, despite the closure of the case.

Lestrade watched him walk away, listened to the steady tread move swiftly down the corridor.

The result was the right one. So why did Lestrade not feel reassured?

o0o0o0o

With Janine visiting relatives in County Kerry for ten days, Sherlock Holmes felt less stress than he had for some time. But knew this was only a break. That he was marking time and really only waiting for Magnussen to act.

He had waited long enough for a result. Tomorrow he would have to start dropping hints, giving clues. Kickstart his route to Appledore.

But first things first. Tonight he had an assignation.

Kitty Haig came to her back door without the rolling pin this time.

"I knew it was you," she said in greeting.

He sat in his usual chair by the Aga and absently watched her make coffee, remained silent until she sat opposite him, just as before, and handed him a mug.

"So, then, Sherlock. It's lovely to see you, but what brings you to my door this time?"

"I have told you to look for a new job. Have you done anything about that yet?"

"Well, no, It takes time to find something, you know…."

"Kitty. I am not pushing you because I have a bee in my bonnet. I am pushing you because Magnussen is dangerous, and before long it is very likely his empire will not be….." he sought a mild enough phrase "….what it has been."

"What does that mean?"

 _That before long - not this week, not this month, but before long - I shall bring Magnussen down, and tear his media empire down with him. And you need not to be a casualty. He has used you and abused your life enough._

"Nothing special. Just market predictions. With the focus turning to internet news and suchlike. It strikes me that as a young widow all alone you need - deserve - a safer and better established position than in a new and untried newspaper with an unpopular owner. And you need to be clear of the shock area before the bomb drops."

"Go on."

"I have been talking to Dale Pike. And his editor. Jenny Greer, their Style Page Editor is retiring. Still top secret news. But Dale recommended - and his boss Andrew Poulton thinks it a good idea - that you be asked to apply. What do you think?"

"Have you wangled this, somehow?"

"Not at all. But Dale put your name forward. And it seems Andrew was impressed the way you had sought me out for a redefining interview to make up for the Reichenbach expose fiasco. He was impressed by your courage and foresight in tackling me. Seems I have a reputation as a man eater. Or woman eater? A fire breathing dragon?"

They both smiled at that, and just for once Kitty Haig's smile lingered in a way it hadn't since Nick had died.

"Andrew telephoned me and asked what I thought. I said your behaviour had been admirable and you deserved the chance to put me and our past aside, and to shine. And that Nick would have been proud of you."

He paused, and looked at her from beneath his brows. She was still smiling.

"And he agreed. Of course the job will have to be advertised and the interview process followed. But I think I can say you will have more than a very good chance." He paused. Sentiment now? For someone who needed just a little?

"And I think I am right. I think your husband would have been delighted for you. And would be pleased you were being offered a better post, a post Magnussen cannot argue with you going for. No hidden agenda, no emotional blackmail. Better job security. Time to move on and reinvent yourself, Mrs Haig."

She was smiling at him, but looking inwards. Nodding

"And it would make Nick Haig's day, Kitty. As well as yours."

She put her hands to her face and cried then. Sherlock Holmes passed her a piece of kitchen roll and waited for her to clear her heart and her mind.

"What about Magnussen? And what about you?"

"Don't worry about him any more. And don't worry about me. He doesn't have to find a way to me through you any more. That is over."

So he lied. But was that not in a good cause? Only Dale Pike knew and shared his suspicions about Nick Haig's death; they had agreed telling Kitty would only be upsetting and unnecessary, and she would only know if and when the murderer was brought to book. When Sherlock made it so.

She accepted his words, that promise of a shining future, at face value. Hugged him and kissed his cheek. Shared lasagne and garlic bread with him.

He left a quiet mind and smiles behind him, made the usual empty promise to stay in touch, to remain friends after all they had been through together. He nodded and smiled distantly and wished a comfortable ending was as easy to achieve for himself.

Left the cosy house and walked away into the darkness of the evening. Threw off the sadness of his mood and told himself to be happy for Kitty Haig. But still wished she had never set eyes on him, had never pursued him, had never brought him to the attention of Charles Augustus Magnussen.

Texted as he walked:

 **10.45pm: Have told her. She likes the idea. Are your photos safe? SH**

A reply came back almost immediately.

 **10.47pm: Great news re Kitty! Yes, picture story all ready to run on your say. LP**

He picked up other texts.

 **5.30pm: Teatime in paradise! Miss you. Where are you? Janine x**

DELETE

REPLY

 **10.50pm: Miss you too! But enjoy your stay! SH X**

 **4.07pm; Lestrade says your phone IS working. So why not surprise us all and use it? JW**

DELETE

 **7.57pm: Neighbour whingeing about druggie son. At me! She thinks I'm a detective! Your fault re that! Ta. Odds-on he's in nearest flop house! Detective? As if! JW**

DELETE

He walked on with fresh purpose. He had an idea. He had been in homeless mode for Dale Pike two days ago. So now….yes. The same clothes would do.

Time to ramp up the pressure. He was ready.

o0o0o0o

Before he found the right abandoned building he toured all the abandoned houses within a radius from John and Mary Watson's flat. Starting at their house and working outwards, unseen by them.

Not that they would recognise the drugged up dosser in the overlarge grey baggy track suit bottoms, the blue polo shirt dark with age and stain, the loose hoodie jacket. The aroma of old kebab and lager that lingered purposefully on the clothes was fine when you were used to it, and after an hour his nose stopped being revolted.

Olive oil made the hair matted, greasy, carded back with shaky fingers. Drugs in his pockets, a vacant look in his eyes, a loose shamble in his walk. Hiding in plain sight. It was enough.

He should have known Bill Wiggin's little empire was the place he would find the lost boy and refuge.

Wiggins - tall, gaunt, with haunted eyes and a chemistry degree gone bad - merely grunted:

"Hiya, Shezza, Long time, no see," when Sherlock called to do business and took a corner on an ancient mattress in an upstairs room beside the teenage boy he recognised as belonging to a Watson neighbour; precautionary checks months ago of the whole street where the Watsons lived made sure there were no criminals, assassins or disguised private eyes in the neighbourhood. Just in case. In case of vows needing to be made good.

Hunched on his side and surrounded by other smackheads, druggies and junkies, Sherlock Holmes felt time tick slowly by. He heard the front door knock, Wiggins open it. Words, an altercation, a scuffle.

Sherlock smiled to himself. Flipped up the hoodie over his head, turned to face the wall.

John Watson strode through the room calling a name - "Isaac? Isaac Whitney?"

The boy next to him murmured to the surface, and he heard Watson bend, kneel, a drift of conversation.

Now was the time. Time for the decision. Stay put and let the moment pass? Or make himself known to John Watson? Explode the situation. Let a roomful of people know the famous detective was on the juice again…..and hope someone there would tip off the newspapers - Magnussen's newspapers - in return for some readies and more goodies to shoot up.

And anyway; he wanted to see John Watson, didn't he? It had been almost six weeks since the wedding, and they had neither spoken nor met since then.

Morning suits and boutonnieres, pretty frocks, a killer at large and a life to save. And after all that energy and teamwork and mutual support - all there had been to show for that was a lonely and premature walk into the night. Alone. Always alone.

Whatever he did, however many lives he saved, how many dragons he slew, however many bonfires he extinguished. Time not to be alone, now. Time for a little hope, a little human feeling. Just a little time for one moment of weakness…. a weakness allowed just this once. In the circumstances and for a case…..surely it was allowed?

He turned on the mattress and pushed his hood back. Saw Watson, squatting on the floor by the boy, Isaac. Hair bleached fairer, skin burnt browner by the sun of a tropical honeymoon. Time to speak.

"Hello John. Didn't expect to see you here, Have you come for me too?" He managed a whoozy grin.

John Watson turned, eyes narrowing, a dozen responses going through his head and saying none of them.

He quietly and firmly told Isaac Whitney to go down to the car. Helped him stand and pushed him off on a wobbly walk back to real life.

Then braced his shoulders and turned back to Sherlock Holmes, the smile he had given Isaac dying from his face, jaw setting.

Before Sherlock could react or reply a fierce hand clutched his hair, hauling him violently to his feet.

"You…..! Where ever I bloody go! Always you! You and trouble!"

A vicious shove drove him stumbling across the room and almost landing on his face.

"Gently, John! I am…floating here!"

"Sherlock Holmes, you are my bloody nightmare! What the fuck are you doing in a drugs den? I leave you alone for five minutes, and just look at you!"

John Watson grabbed a handful of hoodie and Sherlock resisted the pull. He wanted to grin, make a funny comment. Touch Watson and make him smile, just to prove he was real. But did none of those things.

"I am a consulting detective, And this is my time off. If you MUST know. I am Sherlock Holmes and I had a huge brain once…" he announced grandly. Overacting a bit. But still…everyone else in the room was on drugs, so a little overstatement was needed to get their attention, make an impact.

He was betting that the skinny girl with the lumpy elbows and henna bob would be Magnussen's informer.

 _OK, does everyone now know I am Sherlock Holmes and out of my skull? Have we made this absolutely clear, even to a room full of smack heads?_

John Watson swung him around the room, and not gently. Sherlock flailed, and swore, and stumbled, but let him, made a couple of feeble swats vaguely in the air and suddenly they were almost fighting. He spotted Isaac Whitney looking back, eyes wide and wild, then disappear.

Into the corridor, making as much noise as possible. Exiting through the nailed over fire escape door would cause more commotion that meekly stumbling down the stairs, so Sherlock artfully wheeled Watson in that direction without the doctor realising he was being steered..

"Drugs again, Sherlock? Don't you ever bloody learn?" Watson roared. Sherlock put a finger to his lips, shushing. Then shoved at the door.. The plywood covering the gap was no match for a determined druggy detective, and the wooden sheet flew backwards. Once outside the truth could be said; but more quietly

"For God's sake John! I'm on a case!"

Fire escape, wall, wheelie bins, leaping to the ground. Sherlock led, Watson followed. As ever.

"A month. That's all it took. One!" Watson grumbled.

"I'm working," he said with an honesty Watson was in no mood to hear. Watson was more attuned to hearing lies, not truth. Well, so be it.

"Sherlock Holmes in a drugs den. How's that gonna look?"

 _It's gonna look perfect, John! Trust me!_

"I'm undercover!"

"No you're not!"

They reached the ground, an almost deserted car park. "Well I'm not now!" Throwing his arms in the air, slumping, looking pathetic. A bit of overacting it was true, but the audience was becoming more distant, and the stakes needed raising. As he waved his arms like a drama queen the Watson car roared up to them.

"In. Both of you. Quickly."

Mary Watson was driving; dressed in pyjamas and dressing gown.

Sherlock's eyes took her in at a glance. Stared at her, words of greeting formed on his lips, but held back.

He would be friendly and happy-clappy if she would; he would take his lead from her. His response would be led by hers, whatever it might be.

But she did not look at him. Did not speak to him. All but ignored him. Not even allowed herself to be ordinarily surprised or disturbed by his unexpected presence. Or even pleased? Pleased would be nice….

 _OK, Mary. Yes, it's me. Not what you expected? Worrying that I know about you? Found out all about you while you were away? That I worked it out while you were away? Be worried, Mary._

He slid into the back of the car, across to the central seat over the transmission tunnel as Wiggins approached and begged to join them. So now he was in the seat that put him directly into her eyeline through the rear view mirror.

He felt her eyes on him as he moved across the seat and settled comfortably. But as soon as he looked up to meet her eyes, those eyes slide away and would not make even the briefest contact.

He took out a handkerchief to wipe his face clean. The movement, the white object, should have caught her eye. But she deliberately resisted such a natural attraction of her attention. How very interesting.

Oh, Mary, Mary. How you incriminate yourself. So what have you really got to tell me, Mrs Watson?

TO BE CONTINUED…..


	20. Chapter 20

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 20: 'Maybe we started this fire…'

Action will again be recognised from the TV episode. Which is inevitable. However this goes further and deeper….and also includes lost scenes and some plot pointers from the original shooting script.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The morning started well.

Molly struck him. Hard. Two right handed slaps across his face, followed by a left. He almost applauded.

Instead he grimaced, put his hand to his stinging cheek and pulled a face, made another snide remark.

He did the best he could to look shocked but a bit out of it. Had been standing to one side, gently overacting the sulking, as the urine tests - his urine tests - were made. As John and Mary and the two boys stood and watched. No privacy here today.

She had accompanied him to the lavatories and stood by him while he peed, on her command, into a jar. Only the best of friends - or scientific colleagues - could do this, he thought, and quirked a smile in her direction, to share the silliness of the embarrassment. This ludicrous moment.

But today she was a small fury of self righteousness, and he would get away with nothing. Not even fellow feeling.

"OK. So what do I do? What do I say?"

"Make it look good, Make them think I am drugged up to the eyeballs. Be angry."

"I am angry. You ask too much of me."

They were arguing in harsh quiet whispers while standing close to each other in in a man's urinal, Sherlock Holmes' urine hot and fresh in a jar in Molly Hooper's hand. The day could not turn more bizarre if it tried.

He pulled up his disreputable jogging bottoms and planted a kiss on her cheek.

"No. You only think so. But I would be lost without you." he twinkled down at her, not sure if she believed him even when he was speaking naked truth.

"You are an absolute bastard," she said, and flounced out. Molly did not often flounce, but she was rather good at it when she did, he reflected.

He followed her at a more leisurely pace, with the whoozy druggie grin on his face he knew John Watson found most infuriating. Four people glared at that smile as he reappeared. They all clearly thought he was not only as high as a kite, but had also tried a snog and a fumble with Molly in the lavatories, as they reacted with surprise to her unusually angry eyes, stomping walk, high colour as she returned to the lab. They were angry with him in reaction. Disgusted. Excellent!

The tests seemed to take forever. Molly would not look at him throughout, and her mood seemed to spread itself to the others. Isaac was a watchful ghost, Wiggins complaining of the right arm he thought was broken, however much John and Mary reassured that it was only a sprain. Sherlock was going to remember and use again the original explanation he had overheard in the drugs den: 'I'm a doctor; I know how to sprain people;" because it had made him smile.

Proof that the John Watson he had missed ever since his return from Serbia was still in there, somewhere. Relief and hope in that.

Finally Molly had strode across and faced him. Watson had asked if the tests were clear, and she had snapped: "Clear?" back at him in throttled, frustrated tones that could be read either way. She had then looked Sherlock Holmes direct in the eyes and slapped him. Hard. Two right, one left for good measure. Real anger and frustration, not acting. He had not thought she had that in her, but found himself delighted she had.

"How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with? And how dare you betray the love of your friends? Say you're sorry."

He looked at her then with genuine blank amazement and something that might have been shame, finally seeing himself through her eyes and not liking what he saw, suddenly reflexively tired and cold and defensively sarcastic

"Sorry your engagement's over. Though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring."

Only when the words were out did he remember the perfect and perfectly boring affianced Tom, and just how cruel he was unwittingly being.

He had just been pleased, at that moment, she had not been wearing her engagement ring at work and ripped his cheek open with it accidentally. But he would gain nothing by explaining.

"Just stop it!" she ordered, and he did. Because then John Watson was also in his face. Head down, glaring. voice low and thick with an anger than should have been concern.

"If you were anywhere near this kind of thing again, you could have called. You could have talked to me."

"Please do relax," he soothed; overdoing the soothing tone, accidentally further stoking the fire in John Watson's head. "This is all for a case."

"A ca…what kind of case would need you doing this?"

Sherlock Holmes dropped his eyes out of focus. He really was not prepared to deal with this; to be interrogated, to have to lie. Avoidance was so much easier. There was questioning, and sniping, and interjections from Billy Wiggins. And it was almost like the old days. Almost, if you discounted the venom, and the conflict, the very personal and internal conflict, in the eyes and voice of John Watson.

Then the reprieve of a telephone call. The ident said CAM.

"Ah, finally!"

."Finally what?" John Watson was still snappy.

"Good news?" asked Molly, polite again.

"Ah, the best."

Sherlock was suddenly all action, alert and eyes shining as it finally appeared things were turning his way, forgetting to be a smackhead. Heading for the laboratory door, lifting the phone on mute, but ready to speak. "There is every chance my drug habit might hit the newspapers. The game is on." He grinned at them. Because his plan was actually moving as he wanted, and the others would not understand. "Excuse me for a second."

In the corridor he answered in private.

"Drug addict. Spotted in a den. High on cocaine and now undergoing tests. How predictable, Mr Holmes. And how boring." The slow, calm voice of the Danish newspaper magnate rocked round his head.

"Who? Me? Oh, hello Charles. Good morning to you, too. Darling."

 _Well, that should get a response; and convince him!_

"Your secret. That is it? Drugs? You can only solve cases when you are out of your head on drugs? How predictable, yet also how delicious. So now I have you, Mr Holmes."

He tried not to smile, to reveal that smile in his voice. Coughed, hacked copiously, hiccupped.

"Hmmmn. Maybe. Another thing I need to see you about. OK, I concede defeat. You have me, Charles. But first - you also have some letters belonging to someone who wants me to act as their intermediary. A private client."

"Who might that be?"

"Lady Smallwood, of course."

" She is your private client? I don't believe you. She doesn't even like you."

"People do not have to like me to know I am effective at what I do. 'S easy. Drugs or no drugs."

There was a long pause, and Sherlock Holmes hummed tunelessly next to the phone. Being off his skull, uninterested, carefree. Sort of. Acting it.

"My office. 11am. Will you have come down far enough from this ridiculous high you are currently on to get yourself over here and be lucid?"

"Of course. That is work. I am a professional," he declared archly.

Magnussen hissed a cynical laugh and ended the call.

Sherlock resisted leaping in the air with the rush of victory and checked his texts.

 **7.31am: Breaking news here of you being on the streets and on drugs. Is this so? Shall I try and kill the story? Kitty**

DELETE

REPLY

 **7.32pm: Absolutely not. Let it run. SH**

 **7.32am: Story on wire unconfirmed. You on drugs. Do we run? DP**

DELETE

REPLY

 **7.33am: Run now and splash big. Thanks Dale. SH**

 **7.34am: No problem. Will make 11am edition and beat the rest. After all I have the pix! Watch your back. DP**

He leant against the wall. Took a deep breath. Other people than Magnussen could use the power of the press, he thought cynically.

Clicked a speed dial. Reached voice mail. Hoped she was in a meeting and unable to respond or interfere, nodded to himself. Better for his purpose and for speed she was unavailable. No chance of argument now.

"Elizabeth? It's me. Meeting Magnussen at 11am, his office. To discuss Jack's letters. Will keep you informed."

Put the phone in his pocket. Stood up properly, squared his shoulders. Back to the laboratory. Back to the ruse. Onwards and upwards.

o0o0o0o

The morning had started well. And then it went all to pot.

His mind was racing so fast he was dislocated, dissociated, in the taxi back to Baker Street. He barely registered John Watson by his side. Just like the old days? No. Far from it. He wished John was not there. He could tell that his former flat mate was disengaged. Angry with him? Distracted by him? At the end of a very short tether?

Whatever it was, Sherlock Holmes neither knew nor cared. But what made him angry - shocked and frightened him more - was to open his front door and find his brother sitting on the stairs in the hall of 221B, chin resting patiently on the handle of his umbrella, waiting for him with the smug paternal and superior smile that seemed to be his default position.

The younger brother rocked back on his heels at the sight of the older.

 _No! No, brother mine, go away, you are not part of this plan Go away. I do not need you as my additional burden, not just now._

"Well then, Sherlock. Back on the sauce?" Mycroft's tone was scathing. Trying to elicit a response. "The siren call of old habits…."

When John Watson admitted he had alerted Mycroft Holmes to the situation, Sherlock refused to register the shock of that betrayal. The old Watson would never have done that: the new Watson seemed keen on a pious sort of moral rectitude Sherlock could not recognise.

So he swallowed the patronising insults being heaped upon him, hid his panic behind a pose of otherness; he needed to convince everyone he was back on drugs, and to achieve that with a slightly off kilter and fairly untypical tolerance of the situation unexpectedly in front of him would do just that.

After an original explosion of anger that powered him up the stairs to the flat, he finally and almost graciously succumbed to Anderson's search for drugs; neither the forensics officer nor his team would find any of his hiding places, he knew that. For he was much better at hiding than they were at finding.

He folded himself down sideways into his chair, head on the arm, hoodie flipped up. Still acting spaced out and irresponsible as both Watson and Mycroft watched his every reaction like hawks before prey.

 _John Watson caused this. John. Whatever does he think he is doing? Has he forgotten how teamwork works? Two people alone against the world - not Mycroft driving events from his ivory tower via a willing assistant!_

"You're a celebrity these days, Sherlock you can't afford a drugs habit," Sherlock zoned back in. Mycroft was lecturing again.

"I don't have a drugs habit." Well, the truth could often come out as a lie; when people preferred to believe the lie. Was it interesting that no-one believed him? Or should he see that as a sadness?

Tried his best to look wrecked; and Watson was not helping; a sharp comment about his old armchair being moved led to a sharp exchange - untypical and hurtful. Watson was flippant, snide, disengaged, as if Sherlock was an old library book he had returned to Baker Street, or a lost dog he had found and was keen to offload onto someone else; not someone who just weeks ago had chosen him as his best man and declared him his best friend with hugs and laughter and tears.

Mycroft registered the untypical harshness, the sharp and offhand manner of the former flatmate. And Sherlock noticed his brother noticing. For a moment their eyes connected in a shared, unspoken over awareness; neither comfortable with Watson's attitude.

Mycroft, on automatic pilot now, started to berate his brother about the drugs, his responsibility to their parents. So where was the old Watson now, the one who had always leapt to Sherlock's defence, concerned, placatory, helpful?

"This is not what you think," Sherlock Holmes explained pointedly to Mycroft. "It is for a case."

"What case could possibly justify this?" Mycroft asked with the world weary archness of a conscientious man yet again stoically suffering a bothersome younger sibling.

Sherlock Holmes took a deep breath. At this moment only the truth would do.

"Magnussen. Charles Augustus Magnussen." He said the words as if they were vomit.

And his soul lurched when Mycroft's face went grey and cold; who immediately threw Anderson and his team out of the flat with threats to avoid overhearing, turned to Watson with the same objective.

But John Watson was not playing the game by the normal rules; or to the usual style.

So when the British Government threw out an aside: "I hope I won't have to threaten you as well?" Watson folded his arms, shot a sarcastic glance across to Sherlock Holmes and merely replied: "I think we'd both find that embarrassing."

Mycroft Holmes gave Watson a horrified look and turned back to his brother.

"Magnussen is not your business."

"Oh! You mean he's yours?"

The question sounded lighter and more flippant than it was. And at that moment - if either brother had been honest with the other - death and tragedy could have been averted. And the road ahead would have been less stony if faced by two warriors united.

But that was never going to happen. Sherlock registered the thought without a number of emotions he could not afford to recognise and filtered it out, filed it all away.

 _Tell me, Mycroft! If we have to play this game, put us on the same playing field. Just for once - trust me!_

There was nothing he could tell his brother without explaining everything. And there would be neither protection nor defence in doing that. Mycroft could never confide his true interest in Magnussen to his younger brother because of state secrets, natural secrecy, lack of trust, absence of belief. What would happen would have to happen; for neither brother would or could bend to the purpose of the other. So be it. Do it - do it all - the hard way. Sherlock Holmes recognised this with a cold chill where his heart should be and straightened his shoulders.

 _Too much to expect. Knew that anyway._

"You may consider him under my protection." Mycroft was being defensive and therefore pompous, head high, chin raised, asserting authority. Stonewalling. Trying to bend Sherlock to his will yet again. Trying to steer him from a man who was currently being investigated by MI5, abut to appear before a government select committee and sparked every Mycroft instinct for danger…

"I consider you under his thumb." Snarky, dismissive, arrogant in return. Trying to break the protective shell of self confidence his brother always carried with him.

 _Trust me, Myc, before it is too late! What do you know? Does he have a hold over even you? Unbend. Tell me. Let me hel….._

"If you go against Magnussen you will find yourself going against me."

 _Ultimate threat. Stand off. Arrogance, certainly. Fear as well?_

 _Do not let Mycroft see how important this is. How dangerous and close to the edge this is Return arrogance with arrogance. Because this is what we DO._

"I'll let you know if I notice," A dismissive sniff, eye roll, sideways look. Mycroft closed his eyes with the mental exhaustion of battling his little brother yet again. Took a slow breath. Managed to say, with a calm, clear voice, yet vibrating with understated threat:

"Unwise, brother mine."

 _Oh! For…..change his focus before he thinks too much. Works out what…._

Pushed beyond endurance in ways his brother would never understand, Sherlock finally pounced. Snatched, levered and painfully twisted Mycroft's left arm high up his back without compunction, manhandled him forward and slammed him through the door and hard into the opposite wall.

 _Oh, Christ, Twice. This is twice. I will never get over doing this to him and he will never forgive me. Because he doesn't understand. How can he? Yet how could I tell him?_

Mycroft yelped with surprise and pain, but, dropping his umbrella, managed to get a hand between his face and the wall and resist eating plaster.

"Brother mine, " Sherlock spoke in a voice so low, so quiet, so full of repressed fury, even John Watson was shocked out of his current state of vague inattention.

"Do not appal me when I am high."

Pressed up so close to Mycroft and applying a strong level of threat, he could feel his older brother shaking under his hands, a rare human response, an even rarer physical tension in his body in reaction to threat. Fear and surprise sharp within him. For a fleeting second Sherlock almost caved in, almost admitted the whole thing, seeking forgiveness and acceptance, appealing to Mycroft to explain and confide.

Somewhere in his soul he could not face the thought of his brother - his big brother, his brave and knowing brother, the human connection he had above all others - being frightened of him.

However could he be doing this? Other than to be trying to save Mycroft's life, job, reputation…he fought to maintain his self control and his silence, centred himself, just breathing. And thought about the theory of a greater good.

 _Please, Mycroft. Just go, Just drop it. Just forget all about Magnussen! Let me get on with it…._

"Mycroft, don't say another word, just go." John Watson was suddenly at his side, talking fast to Mycroft, finally looking worried, engaged.." He could snap you in two, and right now I'm worried that he might."

 _Finally!_

Sherlock Holmes did not look across to John Watson. Concentrated solely on his brother. It was vital both Watson and Mycroft believed he was drugged up and dangerous. If Watson believed it, Mycroft would. In his peripheral vision he could see Watson peering forward, intent and fully focussed at last. That would do.

He flung Mycroft's arm away from him, turned on his heel and retreated to the window.

He heard his brother clatter down the stairs, saw him emerge onto the pavement. Unusually, Mycroft looked back and up, and raised a hand. Shocked by such untypical behaviour Sherlock ignored it and stepped back out of sight. Checked the time with John Watson, and offhandedly admitted he has a meeting with Magnussen at eleven.

John Watson still did not recognise the import of all this: used to the apparent antagonism always between the brothers, now he just grinned. Sherlock started to explain, but Watson interrupted to ask if Sherlock was trying to put him off, Sherlock responded with a wry, irresistible grin:

 _Oh! Yes, that was more like it!_

"Trying to recruit you," the rare warm smile lingered as he disappeared into the bathroom. Not wanting to admit, to quantify, the last chance being offered to his friend. Hoping the smile would work magic.

Downplayed the importance of keeping John Watson by his side this time, of trying to keep him safe by close proximity now. By his side to be kept safe from the world - and perhaps also from his own wife.

And yet….that was the first proper connecting smile they have shared for a long time. And, just for a moment, hope rose in his chest. This might all just work.

Stripping off the old clothes, he heard Watson talking. Janine had appeared, then; no longer hiding in his bedroom. Janine who has been carefully and diplomatically invisible in his bedroom while the flat was full of people. For a moment Sherlock Holmes quirked a rueful grin; John Watson's face would be a picture worth study!

There was chat, and laughter, and then a tap on the bathroom door and she entered just as he had lowered himself down into the bath. No false modesty was allowed by Janine; he quailed inside, but smiled and appeared welcoming - this was the hardest part of having a girlfriend of sorts; she assumed such easy intimacy between them.

Always happy to touch, to hug, to stroke. Gentle, never pushing her assumptions. But assumptions they were. She always followed him into the bathroom; loved to just watch him shave or bathe, and just appreciate his beautiful body, she said.

If he was taking a bath or a shower she was always willing to kneel on the floor by his side, reach in and caress under the guise of soaping his back, sponging his arms. And he did not know how to stop her, or even if he should. Is this what people being intimate did?. If his body betrayed him and reacted to her touch she purred with satisfaction despite his embarrassment. But she also restrained herself from simply claiming him, even though she knew she could.

She seemed to be relishing her feminine power in this matter, taking things slowly, she said. Not frightening or panicking him, she said. He was both mortified and pathetically grateful.

But today time was pressing. She needed to dress for work. Watson was flabbergasted and hugely entertained at seeing the two of them together, seeing Sherlock smiling and to all intents loving and bewitched. Kissing the girl, letting her sit on his knee and cuddle him; tell him, even in front of the tolerantly amused Watson, that she was the only person who knew what he was like.

And as for Watson, amused and twinkling despite the shock news, he seemed to hear nothing Sherlock then said to him about Magnussen and Appledore: responded to nothing apart from bemused reactions to his friend having a girlfriend.

When she had gone - 'solve a crime for me, Sherlock Holmes' - he tried to explain more about Magnussen and Appledore. Watson was in no mood to listen. Until two heavies eased quietly into 221B and demanded the attention of them both.

Enough. All his attention in the room was shifted onto Magnussen, who entered then.

Being frisked for weapons was nothing new, even in the sanctity of 221B. But the lock knife and the tyre lever John Watson was revealed to be carrying surprised even Sherlock Holmes.

 _Missing action already, then, John? Missing excitement and adrenaline so early in this marriage? No longer blinded by love? Eyes wide open so soon?_

The heavies had never been at the penthouse when he had been there, and Magnussen was now at pains to be quietly insolent, harsh, dismissive, domineering. His assertive, smoothly dominant public persona. His superior ego.

Far from the person who had had his hands all over his body and his tongue down his throat…so Sherlock stood to attention alongside Watson in front of the fireplace, watched and waited, tried to make his plea on behalf of the Smallwood Letters…and was somehow not surprised when Magnussen urinated in the fireplace with an insolent superior scorn that seemed the mark of the man..

 _So that was the worst he could do in public? Abusive but limited, then. No physical or sexual assault in the privacy of the flat despite potential witnesses? No threat, then. No problem._

What rattled him as he listened to Magnussen's monologue was the mention of Redbeard; so he really had been rambling aloud while under the influence of the drugs at Appledore, had he? Was that the worst he had said? Must have been, or else he would have been reminded of it by now, and that indiscretion used against him.

Magnussen dominated them all during his time in the flat, domineering and single minded. And yet he had refused to meet Sherlock's eyes; a different persona for when they were alone, then? Interesting.

But he had still refused to acknowledge the thought or the possibility of Sherlock as an intermediary for the Smallwoods. And had taunted Sherlock, revealed the letters in his jacket pocket.

"I might need the letters, so I'm keeping them," he announced: and added wickedly:. "Anyway - they're funny."

Finally his eyes locked onto Sherlock's, and the consulting detective felt a jolt of reaction to that: a claim of affinity, of knowledge only the two of them shared.

Had he really expected Sherlock to make a grab for the letters? Enter into an undignified tussle? Was he really so unmoved to find Sherlock linked with the Smallwoods? And was that truly a surprise, the surprise it should be?

And why had he come to the flat when an office appointment had been made? To see Sherlock's refuge? To disparage it? To assert his command and superiority? And what, Sherlock wondered, what would really have happened to him if John Watson had not been there with him as witness and deflection? What plan had been thwarted by John Watson's presence?

A deliberate action to demean him, to put him in his place? Threats to be made, conditions to be laid down? Abuse or assault to demean and dominate him? Three against one. So even rape, then? In the privacy of his own home - but not Magnussen's? Or was he just being too instinctive, too reactive?

The air settled in their wake behind them after Magnussen and his heavies left; Watson was offended, Sherlock computing; over computing, perhaps. Was Magnussen's dismissal of his Smallwood plea due to him knowing for certain Sherlock was - or was not - a drug addict? And dismissing him? And yet…the opening had not been closed. Merely stalled, postponed for another day.

He whirled around, physically trying to keep up with the fire in his brain. He knew beyond all else he had to get into Magnussen's office, steal those letters - and anything else he could find - and do that this very night, while Magnussen was away at a function.

Use his romance with Janine to guarantee access to the office, the penthouse; and still to keep Watson by his side to keep him safe. And he also had inspiration; a plan to engage Janine. Oh, yes. Definitely engage Janine. And to make her let him into Magnussen's inner sanctum.

Watson - the shadow of the old Watson - did not ask why Sherlock wanted him by his side that evening. When Sherlock had asked:

"Fancy a little adventure this evening, John?" lightly, flippantly, he had seen the eyes of his former flatmate light up at the challenge; then quell the reaction, shrug non committally and say: "Yeah. Why not?" as if he did not care.

But he did not refuse the challenge to accompany him, nor even question that Sherlock had some shopping to do. Or for what. He was suspicious as to how Sherlock knew the Dane's movements; but a terse "because I do" seemed to suffice. Because it was typical of him?

They parted on the pavement and Sherlock Holmes, senses still whirling, made a huge mistake.

Getting into the taxi he rattled off instructions - "no gun, no knife, no arm spraining" - and made a quip about Watson needing the challenge and the exercise of this evening, because he had put on weight.

Watson agreed the weight gain, argued the amount.

"It's actually four pounds."

"Mary and I think seven."

And as the taxi pulled away and he sank down into the back seat, heading for Hatton Garden, he cursed his hyper energised talkativeness: why did John Watson not realise from that brief exchange that he and Mary Watson had spoken? When they should not have had the chance? Had he got away with that?

o0o0o0o

She had opened the pretty blue front door of their ground floor flat to him the day before and he watched the shock, the suspicion and something like fear flicker across her face before she was back under control and smiling at him with an open expression and friendly eyes.

"Sherlock! What a lovely surprise! John's not…"

"…..here. I know. It was you I wanted to see, Mary."

His voice was level and unreadable. Which did not reassure her. He smiled and wedged his foot over the threshold so she could not shut the door on him. She looked down, registered the fact. Up again to meet his eyes. And capitulated.

"Come on in. Tea?"

 _Doing the happy housewife pose, then. Chatty and bright. Logical._

"No, thank you. Just a chat."

He followed her into the cheerful sitting room with it's white shutters and restful red and cream feature wallpaper. She turned and faced him, took a deep breath, gestured to him to sit, perching on the sofa herself and smiling.

It was more than a month since he had seen her. In vintage lace and flowers at her wedding. Shining in the sunshine. Happy and proud. Now she looked suntanned and pretty, honeymoon sun had streaked her hair. She wore slacks and a smock top. The belly was swelling, noticeable now. He clamped down any emotional reaction to that.

Sherlock Holmes folded down into the armchair by the front window, the light at his back, concealing, but Mary's face in sharp profile in the bright light.

"Did you have a pleasant holiday?" He asked politely enough. He found he could not get the word 'honeymoon' past his lips; too sentimental a phrase by half.

"Yes, thank you. Back to real life now, though. John is doing a surgery this afternoon." She smiled at him. Slightly less on edge because he had not attacked, but still watchful. "He's started cycling to work, bless him, says he needs the exercise." She watched Sherlock smile slightly and look down, and found words running away with her in her nervousness. "He says he's put on weight, Four pounds he says; I think seven….."

" That's enjoying a holiday for you. Good food, good wine, relaxation. And things." He nodded. Let the silence between them stretch,

"It was a very pleasant wedding. People have told me so," he was doing something he knew other people did, something called chatting. He hoped that did not make her more suspicious than she already was.

"And a bit memorable. Solving an attempted murder and all that. Not many weddings have an emergency ambulance and an arrested photographer. Not a wedding to forget." She smiled at him.

"Indeed. Actually I wanted to ask you something odd about the wedding we did forgot to clear up on the day. Because of the other things - dangerous, lethal, more pressing things - the moment passed….."

"Oh, yes, that god-awful wine!" she exclaimed. "Yes, I….."

"No. Not that. The wedding telegrams, Mary. Do you remember the wedding telegrams? The strange one I read out? That made you so upset John had to take your hand to cheer you?"

"No, I don't remember that."

"Well I do," He dipped his hand into his pocket and brought it out. Read again. " _"Mary. Lots of love, poppet, Oodles of love and heaps of good wishes from Cam. Wish your family could have seen this."_ "

He paused and looked directly at her.

"So who is Cam, Mary? No-one John knows - no-one on the wedding invitation list has that name, either. Nor even your Christmas card list, because I checked. Who is he, Mary? How does he know you so well he can remind you of your late parents? And call you 'poppet'?"

"I…..oh, just someone I used to know."

"Romantically?"

"No!" she was appalled at the idea and gave a hollow laugh. That at least was true, then.

"An ex employer, then. Charles Augustus Magnussen. A man with fingers in so many pies. How do you know him?"

He was working hard to keep his voice and his eyes soft, without challenge. And, he realised - so was she.

"None of your business, Sherlock," she said quietly and without stress.

 _She's not denying it. Dare she not deny it? Too proud to deny it? Thinks she can still control this situation? Control me?_

"John's business, Mary. And therefore mine." His voice was cool and firm.

She looked away then, twisted her hands together with a small sigh. Not yet stressed. Thought for a while - and he let her. Finally she looked up and smiled. Consciously without guile.

"I am very fond of you, Sherlock."

"Immaterial."

"No, it's not. Because we are linked forever. Because we both love John Watson. And want the best for him."

"I don't love John."

"Yes, you do."

"I don't love anyone. It is not what I do. Who I am."

He was cold and impassive, and aware he was now in what John Watson would describe as machine-mode.

"Yes, it is. You just don't understand it and daren't admit it. I get that." She took a deep breath and her voice became stronger.

"I am good for John. I am the best thing that could have happened to him. I hauled him out of his depression after you jumped off a roof, and I made him believe a new and happy future would be possible.

"That is what he has chosen, Sherlock. A real life and a rewarding one. But an ordinary one. As a doctor, husband and father. Not as Robin Hood's best mate. Deal with it." She nodded and shot a penetrating glance his way. He lifted his head a little and refused to be read.

" But before me, there was you. Your death almost destroyed him." She paused, perhaps expecting him to say something. But there was no need; he knew that.

"Did you sleep together, Sherlock? Give him something he needed when he could not get love and affection anywhere else?"

"Of course I have not slept with John!" the words kicked out of him like projectile vomit, and with a similar physical sensation. Not this! Any aspersions but not this! "Just who and what do you think I am?"

Her words and accusation were such a surprise he was too ashamed by the very idea to hide the truth of his reaction from her.

"I know exactly what you are, that is why I asked," she said, voice low and firm. He stuttered, stopped, concentrated, began again.

"T- t-t hen you will know why I have so deliberately not been replying to his texts while you have been away, not letting him stay involved in my life. I w-want him freed from me. To turn the page and move on. To make his life with you and be happy."

"And yet here you are."

"Because of you. Not because of him." Sherlock Holmes took a deep breath and became as emotional as he could allow himself to be. "Because of Magnussen. Because I notice you have not denied that my conjecture as to who your Cam from the wedding telegraph really is."

He looked at her then, but she was as unmoving and impassive as he. So he continued. And he could hear his voice was soft and close to breaking, and he could do nothing about it.

"You may or may not recall… I made a vow at your wedding. To care for and protect you, and John, and your baby. I meant that when I said it, and I still do. That is why I am here."

"Well, how very noble of you."

He was stung by her tone, and did not know how to reply.

"You tell me you are trying to keep John focussed on me. On us. I believe you. So believe me when I tell you I will look after John now. Me. His wife. Not you," she continued.

There was a silence. They looked into each others eyes, and neither would back down.

"You know what we do, Mary. What we did. You know how much John loves the adrenalin, the excitement. Is already chafing against convention and the domesticity he himself chose. Something will happen, and he will snap. Can you deal with that John Watson? The John Watson I know?"

"Oh, yes."

The response was firm, decisive, confident. Not arrogant or possessive, he saw. But understanding of the pressure and the choices.

"Who are you, Mary?" he asked suddenly, full intent behind the simple words.

"Mary Watson, nee Morstan, aged forty, orphan, nurse, pregnant wife, soon-to-be mother," she trilled at him.

"No, Mary, who are you really? Who is the person Magnussen knows? The person John doesn't."

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"Yes, you do. So let me tell you something; provide you with knowledge you need to know and will never be able to not know once I have told you. I think there are elements of this you already know, but do not want to face."

He paused to let his words sink in, and she raised her chin to bravely meet his eyes, although he could see the reluctance and the fear in her now. Time to let the chips fall as they must. Time to show his cards.

"And I tell you this now without you having to comment. Not a word, if you do not want to. But I hope you will want to , because it is my job to protect you, whatever you may think. You do need protection, Mary."

She said nothing, just gave a tiny nod, giving him permission to continue to speak. Whatever Mary Watson was, it was not a coward. He drew a deep breath. Point of no return.

"I have a private client who has been threatened with blackmail by Magnussen. So I have been investigating the man.

"I have found an almighty web of blackmails around the world that Magnussen has in his hands. Celebrities, diplomats, parliamentarians, film stars, writers, journalists…..he wants to rule this country if not the world because of his knowledge of their secrets through his manipulations and leverage.

"He may call himself nothing more than a businessman, but he is an egomaniac with psychopathic tendencies, and he does not hesitate to kill if he needs to." He thought fleetingly of Nick Haig, and the desolation that was Kitty. "He takes delight in ruining lives. Simply because he can.

"He is ruthless and he acts without compunction. In any way he chooses. He is frightened of no-one."

"OK," she said slowly, nodding, agreeing

"Magnussen has showed me…." he hesitated. "Some of the manoeuvres he is currently working on."

" You? Why you?"

"A long story." He swallowed, breathed, and continued. "Let's just say he is interested in me, along with several other people. He had someone investigating him killed. The other day someone he was targeting was shot.

" I suspect Magnussen will be coming after you: he has more or less admitted it to me. I think that was what the wedding telegram meant. To warn you, prepare his ground. That he knows who you are and what you have been. Has proof."

"No, Sherlock."

"Yes, Mary. Yes. And he will make you suffer. Because that is what he does."

She stood up, face impassive, body tense and unable to stay still, suddenly.

"Magnussen should not target John and me. Is that your fault?" she demanded.

He faltered. He had not expected this attitude.

"He targets anyone. But an interesting question. You condemn yourself in the way you answer - or, rather, do not answer - what I ask you." He stepped forward and involuntarily put a hand out to her. " I cannot protect you if you will not let me. Help me, Mary. Help me to help you."

"Like I said. Nothing to do with you, Sherlock."

"If it is to do with you and John, it is to do with me."

"And there is the problem."

She stood up and crossed her arms. Glared at him.

"Sherlock, we both love you to bits. But I shall not let you interfere in our lives!"

"Interfere! But I….." he had run out of words, angry, frustrated, burdened with knowledge he could not share, and knowledge he needed to have shared.

He forced himself to not slam a fist into the wall, not shout, to just stay calmer than he felt in the face of such wrong headed intransigence.

"Mary. Please tell me what I need to know about you. Not so I can punish you for it. So I can protect you from it."

"Sherlock, it is nothing to do with you. I can protect John and the baby and myself. And I will. That is all you need to know. And it is all I am telling you."

He knew she meant it. He would have to admit defeat for now.

"You are wrong. Wrong. Just promise me one thing. One thing, Mary." He turned the full force of his personality towards her and looked deep into her eyes.

"If anything happens - tell me. And do not do anything- anything rash - without letting me know. Will you do that, Mary? Not for me; I would never ask anything for me. This is for John."

She tore her eyes from his, walked to the door and opened it.

"Get out, Sherlock."

He had no choice but to leave. As he drew level with her she turned angry eyes to him.

"You have no idea what you are dealing with. If anyone sorts this business, it will be me. Now leave us alone."

There were so many things he could have said in return.

 _I have been trying to leave you alone!_

 _Let me deal with it. I am not the one who will be missed._

 _I made the vow to protect you._

 _I am not the one with a baby's life to consider._

 _I am not the one who is loved._

 _This is not my fault!_

 _Teamwork, Mary. Stronger together._

 _Don't get any of us hurt…._

But he knew nothing he could say would change her mind, or make things better. He simply had no option but to nod his head and leave without another word. Cursed Mary, cursed himself, cursed John Watson. And cursed Magnussen.

TO BE CONTINUED…

.


	21. Things We Lost In The Flames Chapter 21

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 21:'Never the same….'

This chapter, out of story telling verisimilitude and following the plotline, inevitably contains many charged and pivotal scenes from the TV episode. But there is more…

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"I've missed this, you know."

"Missed what?"

"This mad adventure stuff , of course," John Watson replied, grinning to himself. "Bonkers stuff like this - hurtling up 32 floors to break into a multi millionaire's penthouse to steal some indiscreet letters. After you have proposed marriage to your girlfriend so she will let you in. As I said. Bonkers."

He stuck his hands into his jacket pockets and grinned to himself.

Not frightened, not worried - peeved about that false wedding proposal to Janine so she would let them in, but that was John, too humane and caring for his own good - and calm at the prospect of an illegal act in a good cause.

Sherlock Holmes slanted a glance across at him. This was not the new, distant, disengaged John Watson. It was the stalwart companion of old standing by his side. After what had happened since the wedding, since his return from the fall, the consulting detective had forgotten how assuring and affirming that was.

He had got used to be on his own again, he realised with something of a jolt.

And even as he registered this, he also knew he could not allow this resumed partnership to continue, or, rather, to start up again. John Watson was a husband now. He had to start acting like a responsible grown up, with a wife and child to consider. He was no longer a free agent. He could, and should, not be allowed or encouraged to do this any more. Skirt round the fringes of the law, risk his life, run alongside the consulting detective, hanging onto his coattails. No.

Just this once, though. Just for this one final thing. To keep Mary safe and give her the future she deserved, even if it was only domesticity and motherhood. For the consulting detective could not understand that choice because he knew it was vanilla and boring and safe. Ordinary. Conventional. Normal. Which was just what Mary - and John - and it seemed the whole of the rest of the world - wanted, needed and expected.

So John Watson would be back at his side for this one thing only. And then be put aside, firmly, finally, and with as much deliberate determination as before.

And if that caused an unusual feeling in Sherlock Holmes as if someone was clutching his heart in their fist and stopping it from beating, that was simply a pathetically human distraction from the determination of what must be. For their own good. Everyone's good.

Despite his normal appearance of calm and assured electricity, he was on edge.

So much might depend on what happened during the next hour. The devil was in the detail. How would Janine greet him as he presented her with an engagement ring? And how would he talk her round, charm her, to be a witness and an accomplice to a robbery? Or try to work his plan around her, so she did not see and remained ignorant? Would her response - and how he then had to react - distract him from his planned theft of so much material from Magnussen's possession?

Not just the Smallwood letters, as had been the original plan. But also the other material he now knew was lodged there in the penthouse - because Magnussen had shown him. The photographs of the bonfire, of himself, of Mary Morstan. And who knew what else?

Any other material that came to hand affecting all the other, as yet unknown, lives Magnussen was also set to destroy? For the more material he discovered now, the greater the responsibility.

He was so close; so close to achieving everything he needed to and more.

And if all these problems could be solved tonight - in one simple action - it would also save him. Save him from something too often called a fate worse than death. Save him from the promise he had made to Magnussen in a final attempt to get inside Appledore and create the manipulative situation, the space inhabited, that this evening could avoid.

He closed his mind to the desperation that had made him put himself forward as both bait and sacrifice to achieve this aim.

He had never been in any doubt of the enormity of what he could end up sacrificing to achieve his goal; despite his fears the decision was clear and irrevocable. For the end would surely justify the means, and therefore any further abasement of himself was both as immaterial as it was essential.

But if he could get what he needed this evening - then the pressure would be off, the case solved, the prize gained. And law could, slowly but surely, then step forward and investigate, and begin to put formal, legal, limits onto Magnussen and his practises, immoral, or illegal, or both.

For now - for tonight - he had no doubt of how alone he was in this action. How much he was doing this in defiance of all advice and control; and how much Watson was needed by his side just for now, in the depth of that loneliness. Watson; here; now - right now.

The first problem had been Lady Smallwood.

In response to his text she had rung him. She was ice cold and livid.

"You are not doing this."

"Yes I am."

"It is illegal. It will certainly be dangerous. And you have no alternative plan or escape route."

"Please be calm. Magnussen will be at a dinner in the city. The office and the penthouse should be empty. If it is not, the person there will be his PA. I have her in my pocket. Watson and I will be in and out in moments…"

"Oh, so you will have your crony with you and risk getting him into trouble too?"

"He is not a crony, and he wants to be there. He has his own agenda. And anyway, that is exactly what we do. Together."

"What you used to do. Together."

"True. So then consider this our last hurrah."

There was a brief silence on the other end of the telephone.

"Well now; as you are going to do this whatever I say, why did you tell me your plans?"

"You are my backstop. In case things go wrong somehow and we do not reappear. You at least will know where we disappeared, who will have disappeared us, and why."

"Must you sound quite so cold blooded about it?"

"Yes. That is why you employ me."

"Fair point. I assume Mycroft is still unaware?"

"And must remain so." He paused, took a breath. "If my plan works this evening - if I am able to get all the blackmail material I saw for myself in the penthouse the other day - it will be the game changer. It will break the cycle and get everyone off the hook. Including me. And if I am off the hook, Mycroft comes off the agenda.

"Because Magnussen will not then be able to achieve any other lever against Mycroft once he has lost me. And he will have lost his lever against me, because it will make the game we are playing null and void as I will no longer be willing to play the game. Because I will no longer need to manipulate access to Appledore. Is all that not a good enough incentive for you?"

"If that becomes the case it is worth the risk." She paused, thought before she spoke "If anything goes wrong I can make a lot of legal and technical problems disappear if necessary."

"I should hope so. In fact I am banking on it. But I am expecting to make a cleaner job of it than that and walk out like a summer breeze within the hour. When Watson and I are out and clear, I will ring you to confirm we have the material and are safe. If I do not ring you by 8pm send in the dogs. Clear?"

"I am far from happy with this."

"Make the best of what you are given."

He was about to speak again, across the distance between them that was stretching too long and too far, when she suddenly spoke.

"I should be doing this. Facing Magnussen down. Demanding the letters back. I should never have involved you. I should have known using you as an intermediary would not work….."

"Well, thank you so much for that vote of confidence." He snarled slowly but sharply in reply, heard her suck in an angry breath at having been provoked into such a personal and undermining response, and he talked over her attempt to retract.

"Stop dwelling on it. And you are not to try and intervene before I do this thing. I know you, Elizabeth."

She put the phone down on him in something between frustration and guilt.

He scowled, but did not try to call her back.

o0o0o0o

"No, there is absolutely no chance of either of them getting out, Sherlock."

Lestrade was firm and calm. "We are investigating a whole list of unsolved cases the Dixon Carr's have been suspected of for years. And the fact that Mark Dixon Carr tried to kill you - and yes, I do have your statement here, and now also a witness statement from Colonel Bruhl. Which he made this morning on his way to hospital to visit Mr Sondersun, Add that to Marie Dixon Carr caught on CCTV shooting Mr Sondersun on your doorstep, and we have two pretty clear cases of attempted murder.

"So sometimes my brother's vigilance regarding what I do actually has a useful result." There was something of a smile in Sherlock Holmes's voice, and Lestrade heard it.

"You're not kidding. Positively benevolent, for once."

They could feel each other grinning at the other down the telephone. Years of mutual commitment and synchronicity spoke through that silence.

"Mycroft has not been in touch again?"

"Should he?" Lestrade queried.

"He does so like to interfere. Anything from Magnussen?"

"Not exactly. But I have been speaking to Langdale Pike. He has offered up some interesting lines of investigation, you might say. And he has shared his fears about the death of Nicholas Haig, the newspaper reporter."

"Ah!"

"You know about this?"

"Yes. Haig's widow is Kitty Riley. Remember her? Moriarty's dupe at the time of the Reichenbach Fall? The young lady who accosted us at the charity gala?"

Yes, by God."

"Then you will know Magnussen has a black Audi. I very much doubt the man himself was behind the wheel…he does so like to delegate. But you might find the link. Or get one of his underlings to talk. Give the car a deep forensic once-over; even at this late date it may achieve something by at least being unsettling.

"There is one especially callous and proactive member of Magnussen's staff you may like to zone in on. A man with a distinctive silver ponytail…." He hesitated.

"I have a file….." he began again. "It is currently being investigated by a colleague of Mycroft's. But I see no harm in sharing it with you. There may be something there for you that presents some leads, wraps up some cases. I will email it to you."

He also gave Lestrade Lady Smallwood's office number. "In case you need it. To jump past a few hurdles that may be in your way."

Lestrade had the good sense not to ask why he had been given the personal number of a person in Whitehall whose own importance was on a level with that of Mycroft Holmes. He just made a note of it: and wondered. About danger, and alternative plans, and the tension he knew was currently swallowing Sherlock Holmes whole.

"Where did you get all this info?"

"Like any good journalist or policeman, I never reveal my sources," he said.

"Bastard!" Lestrade exclaimed. Then: "But thanks, Sherlock. Take care of yourself."

"I shall endeavour to do so."

Lestrade chuckled as he put the telephone down. He did not hear the irony in the younger man's voice.

o0o0o0o

"Are you OK about John being out with me this evening?" he asked without greeting or preamble.

"Of course I am. I've told you before: I am not about to come between the two of you. And John needs his occasional fix of boyish adventure."

Mary Watson had been reluctant to answer the telephone when the call identity came up on the screen.

When he rang back ten minutes later, she had been walking circles around the telephone in the kitchen rather than answer it, not knowing what he was going to ask, or what she was going to say, but suspicious, all instincts on full alert. By the second call she realised he would keep on ringing until she answered. Admitting defeat, she picked up the phone.

"I should tell you where we are going and what we are going to do ….."

"No. That is between the two of you. Nothing to do with me. You and John are a team. John and I are a team. But we are not the same team."

"You don't have to be like this, Mary," his voice was so quiet, so slow and soft, she almost thought it belonged to someone else. "I am not going to come between you and John. That is not, and never was, my intention. You do know that. Just this one last thing together and that will be it, I promise."

He was so tired. Too tired to be anything but gentle. Tired in body, tired in spirit. He should be able to address the full problem Magnussen had presented to him about Mary: about who and what she was. It was typical of the man as manipulator that he had told enough to pique Sherlock's interest, flick his senses onto full alert. But not told enough to make everything clear. To intentionally add fuel to Sherlock's doubts and fears and deductions about Mary Morstan.

Now she was quiet for so long he almost thought she had put the telephone down. But then she sighed.

"What if he can't give you up, Sherlock? What if he really is what he said he was this morning, when he stomped on Bill Wiggins? That he is indeed an addict? And addicted to the excitement, the chase, and more important - addicted to you?"

This was not the pragmatic procedural fears of the professional. This was the genuine heartfelt fears of a woman in love. Even he recognised that.

"Then I will detox him of me. Whether he wants it or not. I will detox him for you, Mary." The voice was still quiet, slow, despairingly sincere. She could not decide whether she simply did not trust him, or whether she found this untypical selflessness and self sacrifice from Sherlock Holmes regarding a man he had always described as his only friend too much to believe.

"He needs you." Three words that took all Sherlock Holmes' courage to speak. Driven by his annoyance that Mary Watson refused to even consider he - with Watson at his side - may be doing this one thing to save her; to save her and John Watson both; and in an action _\- surely she could see? -_ that would sacrifice Sherlock's relationship with them both.

There was only so much he could tell her, or tell John Watson, before the wheels came off the bus completely. Tell either - both - too much and they would both walk away and never turn back to him. He wanted to protect and save them before that happened.

So he was in control of the facts and the action, and he had to make sure neither irreversibly damaged the other. Not alienate John from Mary, Mary from John. So do the deed, make them safe. And then they could, together, safety and comfortably, alienate themselves from him. That was better. That was tolerable. That was how it was meant to happen.

Mary Watson heard his words with a sense of wonder and of doubt. Sherlock Holmes was haughty, arrogant, selfish and demanding. This new and despairing honesty was as frightening as it was unexpected. But it was time for Mrs Watson to lay her cards on the table.

"He needs you," she returned.

"No. He only thinks he does. I will disabuse him. Time he realised the ramifications of the decision he made to encompass convention, marriage, share his life with a wife and child. Time he understood how to be an adult now."

"You saying you are not an adult? Even when you are the cleverest man in the room?"

He gave a harsh and telling laugh. "What is adult and responsible about what I do? I am myself alone, Mary. That cannot ever change. But John is more of an adult than I shall ever be, so he must change and turn to you, be yours alone. So bear with me while I…we….just do this one thing."

"You don't have to cut him out of your life. Most people compromise…."

"I don't. Can't. Because of what I do. And what he must no longer do. Don't worry, Mary. In a little while he won't miss me."

"He missed you for two years."

"That was when he thought I was dead. This is not grief, this is…..disassociation. It isn't the same. It is just…ordinary life moving on. He will come to terms with it, and accept it. Just this one final thing we need to do together, Mary. Then he will be off my hands and into yours forever."

"Sherlock, no…"

"Just this one thing, Mary. Please. I will talk to you again. After…this evening."

"Sherlock…"

"No, Mary. I am right about this. We both need to be strong now for John's sake."

She shook her head and started to speak, but then realised he had terminated the conversation.

o0o0o0o

"

Good afternoon, brother mine."

"And to what do I attribute this unexpected call?"

"Oh, just the chance to pass the time of day."

"Sherlock, you never telephone to merely pass the time of day. What do you want?"

"Do you know, I can't remember. Perhaps it was simply the delight of hearing your voice."

"What's wrong? What's happened?"

"Nothing. Nothing wrong. Nothing has happened. Perhaps that is why I rang. To point this out. It is rather unusual, so noteworthy."

"Thank you for that. Now can I get on?"

"Certainly. I must get on too. That is what we do, isn't it? Goodbye Mycroft."

"Good afternoon, little brother."

o0o0o0o

He had now spoken to everyone he needed to. Had left details of where he would be, had organised back up if desired, rescue if needed, and heard his brother's voice. There was nothing he had not forgotten. Yet did not understand why he had spoken to so many people. Some sort of premonition? Ridiculous.

The lift drifted to a halt, and they stepped out onto Floor 31. The only light in the darkness was the reading lamp over Janine's workstation.

Sherlock ducked across the threshold, his happy smile pinned on to make his marriage proposal formal. The proposal he had made over the security camera intercom to manipulate Janine, the engagement ring he had shown, the shy but happy smile he had produced - all to achieve the one end - to get himself and John Watson up into Magnussen's office.

And yet now there was no-one in that office to greet him. When he had expected a happy bouncing Janine….

"So where did she go?" he asked Watson, puzzled. "It's a bit rude. I just proposed to her."

John Watson stepped forward into the office as Sherlock was spinning small circles, looking, seeking. And it was John Watson who spotted Janine flat on the floor behind the desk.

"Sherlock…." he warned, voice low, doubtful.

"Did she faint?" he followed Watson into the room, a genuine look of bafflement on his face. "Did I really do that?" Halfway between disbelief, shock and humour. Until John Watson spoke.

"It's a blow to the head."

Watson was on his knees beside her, checking her pulse, brushing her hair from her forehead to check for damage. "She's breathing. Janine."

The girl moaned in response, and Sherlock, realising she was alive, stopped considering her a priority; now safe in the care of the doctor that is John Watson.

He looked round, into the next office.

"Another in here," he moved forward to check. A burly man spread unconscious on the floor; muscles braced and bulging through the material of the expensive suit, a shaved head, earring, tattoos "Security," he added.

"Does he need help?" Watson asked, still kneeling by Janine's side, concentrating.

" Ex con. White supremacist by the tattoos," Sherlock assessed. Prioritised. "So who cares? Stick with Janine."

Something had happened, he realised., cold fingers of a dread premonition very real now, and creeping down his spine. Something had gone wrong. He could feel the evening air coming in through an open window: who could have entered that high room at night? Via the window cleaner's dolly? By abseiling down from the roof? Sucker climbed or grapple ironed upwards? Used the service stairs and a master pass key?

Who would do this, though? No chance burglar would even try to hit such a difficult mark, not would be there by coincidence. But another person had suggested an intervention….another person with the physical dexterity, the nerve, the motivation.

"Then they must still be here, " Watson suggested, glancing round as if he expected to see an intruder under the nearest desk, crouched behind the nearest chair.

"So's Magnussen," agreed Sherlock Holmes in a hard whisper, crouching, stooping, moving towards and touching the black leather seat of Magnussen's office chair. "His seat's still warm. He should be at a dinner but he's still in the building."

He paused to listen; a low murmur of distant voices only he can hear; he was close to the other office door, the stairs to the penthouse. "Upstairs," he added.

"We should call the police," John Watson was already dragging his mobile from his jacket pocket, starting to dial.

"During our own burglary?" the whisper was hurried, scathing. "You're really not a natural at this, are you? " he demanded; heard Watson sigh, close down the telephone, as Sherlock raised a hand for silence. "No. Wait. Sshh."

His head lifted. Drew a deep breath through his nose. Another. An unexpected scent filled the air in the room. Windmilled his hands in wide, sorting, selecting gestures John Watson had seen before. Deep in the library of the Mind Palace.

"Perfume," he announced "Not Janine's."

Janine favoured Yves St Laurent's Black Opium. This was a lighter fragrance altogether, more floral.

"Clair de la lune," he determined. Then, speaking aloud to himself: "Why do I know it?"

"Mary wears it," John Watson observed absently, kneeling at Janine's side, still trying to gently revive her.

"No, not Mary. Somebody else!"

.Hearing a noise he froze; concentrated hard, listening again; thoughts and impressions rained in together; aghast he turned towards the doorway - and ran off without explaining himself. Just in case he was right…

"Sherlock!" John Watson's cry was warning, caution, plea; he wanted to be with his friend, but the doctor within him demanded he stay with his patient, who was finally starting to awaken , murmuring up through shock and pain.

Halfway up the stairs, Sherlock Holmes paused to listen again. He heard Magnussen; not words as yet, just tonal sounds, a stressed pitch, untypically urgent, unimaginably almost tearful. Then his hearing finally tuned sounds into words.

"What would your husband think, eh? He…. your lovely husband… upright…. honourable…."

Sherlock Holmes remained frozen for a moment by what he heard. Put his thoughts firmly on hold as he crept silently upwards. Looked through the door into the penthouse.

Magnussen there, on his knees is a corner, arms raised in supplication, and cowering. Still talking, the volubility of the terrified.

"…..So English. What would he say to you now? Eh?".

In front of him, with a dark back turned to Sherlock, stood a trim figure dressed all in black: cargo pant fatigues, with loaded thigh pockets. Swat boots, black sweater and gear rig vest, balaclava hat pulled down over the ears but the face mask rolled back and up.

 _Unafraid to show the face, to risk being identified afterwards. Set to kill Magnussen then - the only witness to his death. Professional. But now there is ME!_

Black leather gloves. And in the glove of the left hand a high calibre pistol - Walther PPK? Browning? Couldn't tell from this angle. But a pistol with a silencer and being held steady at professional arm's length, cocked and ready to fire.

Magnussen sensed the determined movement as readily as Sherlock, and in panic reverted to Danish in plea: - "Nej, Nej!" he cried - No! No! - in denial, low, ragged, unusually engaged.

"You're doing this to protect him from the truth, but is protection what he would want?" Magnussen had tried pleading, now he tried reasoning.

Sherlock stepped softly into the room, to save, to intercede, to break the impasse. Not to specifically save the man on his knees and terrified. But to get the man to tell where he keeps his secrets, to save the person in control, the potential shooter, from the final finite act of determination and revenge.

Only afterwards did he realise the idiocy of stepping into a room dominated by a person with a gun. A gun cocked and locked and ready to do it's work. But then, he had always made mistakes, hadn't he? Even if they were always the worst of mistakes for the best of reasons.

" Additionally, if you're going to commit murder, you might consider changing your perfume," His voice joined the one sided conversation; authoritative, imperious, and instantly filling the room.

He almost felt the other two people slam their attention towards him, catch their breaths. And because he knew who the shooter was, knew instinctively - because he had told her not to act, and she was never one who took orders easily or kindly - so he knew who this was only too well….he added: ". Lady Smallwood."

As soon as he spoke he knew he had made a mistake, and the enormity of the mistake. Because Magnussen straightened his spine then, pulled in a long shaky breath. And looked at him, those blank shark's eye puzzled.

"Sorry - who?"

He looked from Sherlock to the shooter. And back. Spoke slow and sure and confident, as if trying not to panic either or any of them. And most especially the person with the gun. "That's not Lady Smallwood, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock frowned, momentarily speechless. He knew, he was sure he knew. How…?.

The person in black turned slowly to face him and to slowly, purposefully, level the gun at him. Not Lady Smallwood. No. It was…. The person he had barely even feared it might be. Unbelievably it was. It is Mary Watson.

This, he realised with a jolt of hindsight, this is the real Mary Watson. Cold, calculating. He was looking into the dead eyes of a killer. For a second there had been a flash of recognition. Warmth - friendship even.

But ultimately the woman was a professional. He saw that now; and too late.

 _If only Magnussen had told me! If only….._

She stepped back into herself and made no greeting nor excuse for her presence. And the question she posed was so simple.

"Is John with you?"

She had not expected to see either of them, he realised. She had not wanted to know what her husband and her best man had been planning to do tonight, or why, or even where they would be.

Because she had had had her own agenda, her own destination and purpose for this evening. Was just relieved to have both of them out of her way so she could achieve her aim.

 _Sorry, Mary!_

And yes - now he understood why she had been so disengaged when he rang, was just happy to see them both out from under her feet. To give her opportunity and space of her own in which to move and to raid and to complete her self imposed mission - to kill Magnussen.

And he - Sherlock Holmes - had put all three of them in this position. Because of his desire to bring down Magnussen and retrieve all the dangerous paperwork and revealing photographs. And because he had been stupid enough to tell Mary Watson that her photograph existed; that he had seen it, that Magnussen possessed it and knew her secrets. And that he had underestimated her will and her determination to keep her secrets regardless of anything. And certainly regardless of him.

 _I am an idiot! John trusts me so I assumed Mary would too. Fool!_

She had never been willing to trust her husband's best friend. He saw that now. Had never trusted him to do what he would and be himself, do his job, and yet also keep them all, all four of them, safe. As safe as he had vowed.

Sherlock felt as if he had been hit between the eyes with a brick. That the gods had clamped hands around his heart and stopped him breathing. Had dropped him into some obscene joke of suspended animation.

He tried to speak, mouth dry with shock, lips working and nothing coming out. He blinked, and then collected himself

"He's,,,,umh…."

"Is John here?" she repeated. Blank question without appeal or encouragement.

"He…."

 _Try again, Holmes. Get a grip._

 _Is there any point in trying to protect John from this? Of course not; she was not about to shoot her husband. And that need for restraint may save us all. So try truth, then; because she knew they would be together. When danger called - when were they not?_

"… he's downstairs."

She nodded in reply. A tiny tight smile as she reconfigured her plans, her objectives, allowed for the new complications and dynamics that had presented themselves. Disaster. Thanks to her husband and his best friend.

"So what do you do now? Kill us both?" Magnussen asked from behind her. It said much for the fear Mary Watson had instilled in the Danish millionaire that he stayed where he was, made no attempt to overpower her when she was not looking at him, or make a lunge for the gun.

Was he a wise man or a coward? Sherlock Holmes could not decide.

Mary Watson smiled humourlessly back over her shoulder at Magnussen, and ignored his question.

"Mary, whatever he's got on you…let me help," He heard himself, strong, confident, but speaking from his heart. From good intentions. He knew - now - he had been right to never quite trust her. But Magnussen was hideous; whatever the hold he had over her, her action now was brave, and committed and probably more than justified, and he could not criticise her for that.

And they both had their own love and commitment to John Watson to rescue from the wreckage of all this; whatever this was. A joint mission then - a joint goal. She would understand they are stronger together than divided. Of course she would! Understand that John Watson deserved no less from either of them.

He smiled, recognising that she was a professional too, that she must see and understand this complication he had become to her plan and her life had not been intentional; she must know he was on her side. Would help her, just as he had promised he would?

Took a half step forward to reassure her, unite at her side against Magnussen. So he was unprepared - shocked, disbelieving - when she spoke, coolly, almost conversationally:

"Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step I swear I will kill you."

What a professional she was! He was suddenly proud of her, John Watson's clever and unique choice of wife! He may not have known what his friend saw in her when he fell in love with her. But he could see now! Another soul with John Watson's love of danger, of adrenalin, and with all his strength.

Sherlock Holmes gave a small uncalculated smile that warmed his eyes. Took another small step forward.

"No, Mrs Watson. You won't." His voice was low, assured, confident. Confident in her, her acceptance and understanding of him.

As he lifted his foot to move forward - ignoring that ridiculous cliché of a threat - she shot him.

Just as she had told him she would. One bullet. Low centre mass. He saw the recoil of the barrel; heard the small cough of the ignition; saw the black slug leave the muzzle, the trickle behind of gases combusted. Everything felt suddenly focussed down to the one action, and time moved into slow motion.

He could not have moved to escape if he had tried…even if he had believed what was happening. Realised it would have made no difference, that there was no escaping the physics of it.

Because he didn't believe before. A split second later and too late - then he did.

He looked down at his torso, quietly shocked. Surely the impact should kick him backwards, spin him to the floor? That was what it always looked like on TV, in westerns, in cop shows. A scream, a spin driven by the impact of the shot, wild flying limbs, a crash to the ground.

Yet he had hardly felt a thing; a tiny kick, no more; more like a finger being flicked into his body. He kept looking down, still not believing.

There was a pause of suspended time. It seemed to last for hours. After that freeze framed pause blood started to show. Just a little seepage of red at the hole punched into his best new white shirt at first. Surely he was imagining this? How could Mary have shot him? John's Mary - his Mary. Had shot him?

The seepage became a trickle. And then a flood. And as he looked down - _the fascination of the awful; how absurd! What a cliché! -_ his mouth dropped open in shock. The air started to leave his body. Yes. Shock.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. Truly am." Her voice sounded cramped down. As if she too was only now realising the awful finality, the result of her actions.

 _Well, thanks, Mary! That's fine! Makes me feel a whole lot….."_

"Mary…..?" he managed in a sort of wonder, a sort of disbelief, a sort of appeal for help.

He started to fall backwards. His peripheral vision registered Mary Watson moving; turning and pistol whipping Magnussen to the ground, turning away, reaching for something.

The body of Sherlock Holmes began to crumple. To fall onto the floor and to convulse in shocks and jolts of pain as the bullet slammed a wild disorder into his body, took him down.

Red, rushing, unbearable pain. Too many thoughts for his brain to hold - and it was true: life did flash before your eyes in a kaleidoscope of images and regrets and impressions from the past,

He felt his lips pull back over his teeth in the rictus grin of approaching death. But the machine that was the mind of Sherlock Holmes was still working - now at hyper speed.

 _Mary moving, reaching for something, turning away. He heard the chirrups of a mobile phone being brought into play. Why? Who? What for? Who cares any more?_

The elegant mirror behind him had not shattered, so the bullet was still in him. Good. That was good. A bullet that had entered and passed through would make a larger exit hole, have hit more vital organs, and he would be already dead. The bullet had travelled less far, less hard than he had expected …

 _Ah! I see! So no death intent in the shooting. Two proofs now. That's something…._

A single shot to arrest, to damage, to retain control of the situation. No professional absolute kill shot. That would, even at such close proximity, still be the definitive two shots centre mass, plus one head shot; to guarantee no way back.

So Mary had shot him - just the once - for control and clarity, but also shot him - just the once - so had been offering him a special sort of professional compromise now - a way back to life? Covering all possibilities? Delaying and distracting him. Increasing his odds, by cutting her own. Oh, how interesting.

Had she shot out of panic? Fear? To minimise disruption to her plan? To keep John Watson out of the way? Doubtful.

But she had not followed through her original plan - had not shot Magnussen. To protect Watson and keep him safe in an impossible position? Because she did not know if her husband was even now downstairs trailing fingerprints and DNA in his wake?

Evidence that would be circumstantial only. But circumstantial evidence had been enough to get people hung in the past. And even so, there was no way Mary Watson could allow any close scrutiny of her husband and thus herself; her assumed identity may not survive such close scrutiny. Yes.

 _Should have been sensible. Should have stayed downstairs, not moved forward. Why always so impulsive? Why cannot a brain like mine learn restraint? And thus safety? Because my brain does not work like that! It cannot! Don't start into self blame and defeat - just deal with what's happening!_

No. Should have let Mary have time to shoot her real target.

 _Also my target. She could have killed two birds with one stone. Instead of just me….easy to be wise after the event…._

To then have found the body, taken time to find and remove the paperwork and exit quietly. Leaving Janine and the security man unconscious and exactly how they had found them….and been gone. Unknown and unnoticed. Professional. That would have been the sensible thing to do.

 _Will I never learn to be sensible, to stand back, to be prudent? Too bloody late now….._

 _The East wind is coming. It is coming for me. I can hear it chasing through corridors, over hills, up stairwells. Hunting me. If there is a chance to survive I must grab it - I cannot die now!_

 _John Watson has to be made safe. I made a vow, I must keep it. Must love and keep it. For how dangerous will Mary now be to her John? For he must learn of this. Must know. Not become a victim himself through ignorance. And only I can tell him. I am the only person he will believe. And he needs to know, For his own survival._

 _How dangerous will Magnussen be now to us all? And there is still only me to do this thing…._

 _She did not mean to kill me. She did not mean to kill me. She does not know she has killed me. Just one shot, Mary. When you should have done three, But one shot is enough…._

 _Just seconds left now. Try to control the transport. Slow it down. Suspend animation. Try and get into meditation mode. Shallow breaths. Has to be shallow breaths. Anything else hurts too much. Come on, come on - step out of yourself and drop beyond your pain and your fear and your consciousness._

His eyes rolled up to the ceiling.

 _Why are ceilings so bland and white and boring? People lie looking at ceilings so often in their life - in dentist's chairs, chasing sleep, relaxing, thinking, being medically examined - why aren't ceilings more interesting?_

Distantly, far, far away, he feels the vibration of running footsteps on the floor against his head.

John Watson, his white knight, his hero coming to his rescue, his medical Mr Fixit. _Come on, John -_

 _Fix it! Fix me! Help, John! Save John Watson! Save me! Stop the blood…_

He felt the thump shiver painfully through his frame as Watson dropped to his knees at his side.

Heard his friend curse, felt his gentle hands brush the jacket aside and put even more gentle fingers to the wound. He would have cried out if he could. He couldn't.

Watson questioned Magnusson frantically as to what happened - to a calm reply "He got shot."

 _Oh, cheers! Bloody helpful! Does John think Magnussen shot me? Dropped his gun out of the window and is playing the innocent victim? Certainly doing nothing to help me, the bastard._

 _Wants my body but doesn't care to save my life….how typical is that? Necrophilia. Oh, please….._

 _No, don't think about that!_

 _John! Concentrate! Think about blood…..! My….blood. Help…me…not….d…._

TO BE CONTINUED…


	22. Chapter 22

Things We Lost In The Flames

This chapter is mainly the telling of a pivotal and iconic scene from _His Last Vow._ As it should be at this part of the story! But there is more….

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Chapter 22 is dedicated in memory of a unique and magnificent actor and author, irrepressible life force, loyal friend, all round good guy and inspiration Tim Pigott-Smith OBE (1946 -2017) who was called home unexpectedly and far too soon on April 7th 2017 - one day before he was to open a tour of _Death Of A Salesman_ from Northampton starring as Willy Loman.

He was best known as Captain Ronald Merrick in Paul Scott's _The Jewel In The Crown (The Raj Quartet)_ TV adaptation _._ But also played a famed Watson in the West End and on Broadway for the RSC opposite John Wood as Holmes. And so many other memorable roles he made his own.

Exit left with angels, m'duck. How we will miss you.

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Chapter 22: 'And you were away….'

When you can only see the ceiling above you because you are lying on your back on the floor. When you can neither turn nor rise because you have a bullet in your chest. When the other person in the room is not coming to help you. Then the other senses have to work overtime to compensate for the inconvenience of the current situation.

The floor is hard, despite the plush carpet. The air is getting colder - _would someone shut that open window?_ Or is it just reaction making him feel so cold? Just shock making him shudder down to his bones? The air conditioning fan is whirring regardless.

The shooter has left. Yet Magnussen is still breathing; Sherlock can hear him breathing on the other side of the room. Why was he still breathing anyway? Doesn't make sense - that was the purpose of the surprise nefarious visit, to kill Magnussen. Surely it was? So why not kill Magnussen as intended? Why kill him instead?

Ah! At last! Through the unnatural sudden quietness of the room…..John Watson's running footsteps. Coming this way.

 _About time, too. Come ON, John! Oh, God, this feels….bizarre, even for me. So must be bad. Very bad._

For John Watson snatched a surprised breath and was cursing. Could even be praying? Calling for an ambulance, anyway..

 _Good idea John. Because I may be dying here. Breathing too fast and can't control it. Got to be internal bleeding, surely?. Shock, too. Painful to breathe…Focus. Concentrate. Control, control. Can't Get. Control._

 _Focus! John is going out of focus. Pain in control. Hot, sharp, too strong to will away. A bit not good._

 _John Watson demands answers; to stupid questions. Anyone would think this was a TV cop show. Not real….What happened? Who shot him? Basic stuff, really. But to ask Magnussen? Of all people?_

 _Well. Good luck with that._

John Watson was talking to him now, trying to keep him awake, stem the bleeding. Using the leather gloves wrenched from his own pocket as pressure pad. Pushes more pressure onto the bleeding wound and leans in, grunting with shock and effort.

 _God, that hurts. Really hurts. Cannot afford to suck in a hard breath John, don't want to breathe at all really - so have a care! Stop! No, no, don't, actually._

There is a rush of air as other people enter the room. Paramedics. Conversation. Cold, urgent hands. Other hands, more hands. Not John's hands. Oxygen mask. Shirt ripped open. Chest exposed to air and cooling, but still that overwhelming feel of the heat of blood trickling down.

 _Mind the wound, idiots! Can't you see I am really having trouble breathing now?_

Scoop and run. _Oh, good idea!_ Trolley. Lift. Even colder air. Into an ambulance. Bright light. Tiny enclosed metal box world. World closed down to pinhead size. Focussed.

 _What are they saying? Hearing going in and out…._ Small entrance wound. Internal bleeding. Shock. What sort of gun? How long since the shooting? Stabilise….

 _What are you saying? I can still hear you. I think. Or all in my own head? No. Was shot. Definitely shot. Drowning in my own blood? Is that just another cliché?_

 _You're shaking, John! Why shaking? Shock? Adrenalin rush? All there in your hands, your voice._

 _Or is it all just me - shaking with shock? Can't speak, can't tell who did this; would I if I could? No, no - concentrate on tending the transport. Put the transport first for now…..drifting, voices fading, vision failing. Blink! Read condition through reactions of those nearby? Doesn't look too good, then. Blink. Try. Body closing down? Really dying then._

 _Oh, OK. Cannula sliding into the back of the right hand. Fluids, now, then. Try not to -OH! - Cough. Taste blood and stale spittle. Not good. Suction tube pushed against teeth to suck it away. Feels like the last breath ever to be taken sucked away too._

'Sherlock? We're losing you!"

 _I know! Idiot! More shouts - and dammit they should be panicky by now. Yes, this is bad. Concentrate. While I still can. Blink. John looks fuzzy; he's attaching a bag to the cannula, Concentrate. Monitor. Focus. Is a level of 60 for blood pressure really compatible to life? Can someone move that Emergency Department a bit closer?_

 _Good idea, chaps. Choose a hospital with a good trauma team, if you would? Royal London? That'll do: it's part of Bart's; so almost my second home, anyway._

 _Heart beating so fast it will soon explode, I think. Fluttering eyelids. Tiresome, this. Breathe. Every ragged shallow breath hurts, John. So must try and breathe slower, lighter. Not breathe at all might be best. Hurts too much to breathe._

"Sherlock! Breathe! We're losing you….Sherlock!"

 _Ah yes. John Watson. Doing…things to try to keep me alive. How kind. Very tired, John. No, honestly, very kind and all that, but just don't bother….It's only me, and I'm so tired John, that I really don't care._

 _Oh, you've done it anyway. OK. Good stuff._

He can feel the motion of the ambulance, the regular painful sways as the vehicle corners at speed that make him gasp. John Watson gasps too, bracing against him on the trolley, urging, encouraging, swearing, a steady stream of verbal nonsense. Terse conversations with the paramedics and trite encouragement to the patient. Something to listen to, to keep focus, to keep him awake.

 _Plasma? Blood transfusions? Try that new TXA clotting agent, tranexamuc acid; air ambulances use it. Oh right, you do too, just heard it mentioned….don't forget you have to report GSWs to the police; ask for Lestrade while you're at it, let's keep this in the family. Is anyone questioning Magnussen? Bet he won't tell anything….._

 _Wait, wait, wait! Checks. Toes still wriggle - no spinal cord injury, then. Heart's got to be OK, as still breathing, sort of. Get the O Neg ready, I'm going to need it. And someone with a penknife to dig that bullet out….._

A sudden halt. A&E department.

 _Really the London, then?_

The lift at the rear of the ambulance is so slow. Voices again…handed over to an emergency team. Progress.

The trolley clicked sharply down onto it's wheels. Flinch. He can follow his progress in his imagination, by sounds and movement; eyelids too heavy to lift now. Hand over again to a medical team, then straight into resus. Off the ambulance trolley onto another - so many hands lifting and sliding.

 _Who tried to scream then?_

The mechanics applying kit; blood pressure cuff, cardiac monitoring leads and more;

rush down corridors white and shining and too bright. Monitors ready to plug in. Wheel into the harsh while light of an operating theatre, Frowning, concentrated faces hidden behind masks, bodies behind scrubs. Another oxygen mask, more pain, orders and instructions called out, terse and fast.

 _John! Tell them I have neuratypical reactions to drugs! More anaesthetic, not less….._

Everything goes black. Deep black. Pitched into blackness.

 _Morphine? Or paracetamol? Ketamine? Smell of plastic - a blow of relieving air from a face mask. Ectopic heartbeats. Pericardial drain? Yes - so watch for re-bleeding. Chest drain, intubation. Check for lung and neurological damage. Oh - finally - coldness spreading up an arm. Senses draining down into nothingness…..bliss._

Weird dreams. Death dreams.

 _Control! Control! Control!_

 _Moriarty. How predictable - in a padded cell. That's his place in the Mind Palace. Stuck in the Mind Palace then, are we? Well, Moriarty is certainly in a padded cell there; the only way to stop his taunting._

 _Taunting now. Redbeard. Mycroft and Molly. Guns and gunshots and pain and fear. Mortuary drawers, padded cells, endless corridors. Darkness and then sunshine. Mary in her pretty frock. Mary in black fatigues. Running down corridors calling her name, trying to get her to come out and face him….where are you, my ASSASSIN?_

 _No! Not any emotional response - no. Emotion is a weakening thing, not important. Control the fear and the body and the brain. Control them._

 _Die. Not die. Die. Not die. Fate. Lottery. Luck. Skill? No! Sheer bloody mindedness! Stay alive! You haven't finished yet! Kick back and live until you have served your vow and protected John, you moron. You fool. Damn and face down the consequences then! Only die then. When you have done the job. Only then._

 _It's raining, it's pouring, Sherlock is boring._

 _It's raining, I'm crying. Sherlock is dying….._

 _John Watson…._

"Sherlock! Are you with me? Sherlock?"

 _John? Yes, you. John. How many lifetimes have passed while I have been dead, John? What time is it? What year? Where am I? And what has happened since I have been dead? Has anyone else died without me being there to save them? Tell me! Save a soul. Save John Watson's soul….can't die, got to warn you about Mary…_

He had moved, somehow, and heard a groan he realised - with more than a smatter of shame - realised was him. Him making that low animal noise. Disgusting.

 _Mustn't let John hear that. Hadn't meant to make a sound. Patients can cry or scream coming round from general anaesthetic. No defences. But I must never show pain or emotion. Never. Think of the consequences._

 _What am I doing showing human response anyway? How could I betray myself like that? Is it meant to tell me I'm alive? Alive again, then? How does that work?_

Consciousness arrived so slowly he wasn't sure how - like swimming upwards towards sunshine through a dark dream. Struggling upwards, clawing his way up, snarling with the immensity of that effort, up those endless stone stairs inside a ruined wing of the Mind Palace.

 _Brain forces heart, heart the engine pushing the body up the ruined edifice that is ME! Get the machine functioning again. Clamber and fight and struggle. Push the transport. Haul it upwards, Every hard step. Upwards. Into blessed stillness._

The smell, the air, the very atmosphere shouted hospital. The quiet stillness silently announced a private side ward.

 _What's happened? Am I dead - yet still imagining all this? Transmogrification then? When the very air reeks of still being alive? Blood and sweat and antiseptic smells. Cleaning fluid. Sickening. And anyway - how can I imagine all this if I am dead? Unless there really is life after death and I have been wrong all these years?_

 _Side ward, yes? Bypassed ICU, or just too deeply dead to have noticed passing through?_

He focussed down the panic and concentrated. Could then feel the canulla in his hand, the electrodes on his chest, the dressing over the wound pulling on the tiny sensitive chest hairs, the oximeter probe clipped on his right index finger.

He didn't need to see the drip stand and it's bag feeding him blood or saline and drugs; didn't need to see the monitors; he could tell exactly how ill he was by the volume and regularity of the clicks and bleeps from the machinery.

The button for the morphine pump was under his hand, but he did not want to use that; would rather feel the pain, feel it kick his brain into gear; any pain better than going back to sleep and never wake up again. Needed desperately to think, to process.

 _So the transport was now in the care of the mechanics. Good. Leave tending the machinery to them. The patient will deal with the more important part of himself: the intellect, the consciousness, the brain._

 _Leave the mere mechanics of caring for the transport to the multitude of minions who did such work. Stop worrying about what you cannot affect. Concentrate._

 _The main task of recovery was in the head. Control it. Control himself. Distract the transport. Think!_

 _Process. Re-boot. Re-order. Reinstate. Deep pain in the chest. So breathe with awareness and breathe shallow, Too weak to open eyes. OK. Not dead. Alive, then. Progress, of sorts._

 _Because I died on the operating table - I know I died - and was dragged back to life again. By the medical team? Or by my own ridiculous willpower?_

Still not quite awake. Still felt the dark whispers of bright, befuddled death dreams.

 _Why are death dreams alarming? They are standard in trauma cases. So what had happened to put me in this place, three quarters dead?_

He concentrated. As much as he was able, being so weak. Thought and pain alternated, in waves, like the sea going in and out.

 _But he remembered…..what did he remember? Magnussen. A gun. A shooter behind the gun. Mary_.

 _Oh! The shock of that…was immense. Remains immense. Is that true - or more trauma dreams? No. Of course not. It was Mary Morstan who shot me. Mary Morstan. Not Mary Watson. The person who had been the person before the person who now was. Brain fuddled with drugs. Just concentrate._

 _Oh, yes, now I see. So that was why I never fully trusted her, however hard I tried. I saw death in her and denied it. Instinct had revolted, and I had dismissed instinct - as always - in favour of facts and cold reason._

 _Yet now I know, and have seen the real face of Mary Watson. How can I ever reveal this truth? Or speak of it? Deal with it?_

 _How can I tell John Watson about this? But how can I not? Warn him about the danger his wife presents - to me, to him, to us all? The dangers of sleeping with a professional killer, John? Did you never understood, never consciously realise, the lethal qualities of your beloved? Your wife, your lover, the mother of your prospective child. Oh, God._

His thoughts scattered as he came close enough to the surface to register there was a hand resting on his right arm. The hand tensed as he shifted a little and groaned, relaxed again.

 _John…? Here? Of course, John. Who else but John? John had found him bleeding on the floor. Saved his life again. Was too faithful. Would not leave him._

A flash of memory. 'Who shot him? John had asked someone: had asked Magnussen. Of all people.

 _Oh Jesus…did I tell him? In pain and fear and beyond self control - did I tell him? Did I? Was I so scared, so stupid, so honest? That I told him? No, couldn't have done. Don't panic. Even if I had told him John would never have believed me. Would have thought I was delirious with pain. Hallucinating. Or just so stupid and selfish and - childishly, lethally - jealous of Mary. And if he thought that, then he would turn away and never talk to me again._

"Sherlock? Can you hear me? You need to wake up now."

Sherlock Holmes flickered his eyelids. His arid mouth moved as he tried to speak. Watson saw and responded. A sob of relief in his voice.

"I thought we'd lost you. Nearly bloody did. You died on the operating table. Sherlock. They had given up - about to switch off the monitors. As soon as they turned away - you came back. Lazarus Phenomenon, due to all the adrenalin they pumped into you, they reckon. Who else but you, eh?"

Sherlock Holmes struggled to concentrate on what he was being told. Held his eyes open long enough to see Watson leaning over him.

 _I'm alive - John says so, so I must be. So I've got to move, and now! Got to keep John safe!_

"Sherlock! NO, don't struggle, take it easy….What is it?"

Sherlock Holmes fought his way up through fog and appalling weakness. Tried to clutch John Watson's hand; get him to listen

"….Mary…." he shouted. It came out as a frail whisper

"What?" demanded John Watson in disbelief.

"Mary!" Sherlock shouted again, and Watson bent to hear.

"Shut up!" Watson responded, laughing. Hearing the name of his wife seemed incongruous to him. " Don't worry about Mary. She's home. Preparing some presentation for work in peace and quiet while we were out. Speech, visuals, bullet points…"

 _I know about Mary's bullet points! Don't make me tell you!_

John Watson reached forward, a water spray in hand to put moisture into his mouth.

"Just be calm, Sherlock. Is that better?"

 _Never going to be better, John. Always knew there was something …not right…. I killed my doubts because you were so happy…because I hoped it would be OK, that it was just me being me ...shouldn't have …my oversight….my mistake… deserved getting shot then …..._

"Hmmm…." his eyelids were so heavy. .

"Don't worry, I'm here."

"…Mary…."

"Sshh"

o0o0o

This time he was waking and fighting his way up through a long dark tunnel, and he was exhausted by the climb - too exhausted to call for help. But here - yes - help was here! There was a concerned face, leaning in from above.

 _Oh! It's you! I trust you. Like you…..NO…no, that's not right! No I don't trust you! You killed me!_

He could have cried with frustration, then. He knew reaching the surface had been a close run thing. And this time - _this time_ \- NOW - he had more important things to do than lie down and die, however much he had wanted that before. This time he had truth to tell…a secret to share….justice to deliver….

Blonde short hair, blue sharp eyes. John? Concentrate! Focus! NO! This person leaning into him was female! A whiff of that abominable Claire-de-la-lune perfume.

 _No! This was not someone to save him, help him! This was…death!_

His eyes exploded wide in shock

"Sherlock?"

The voice was chivvying, sing-song, playful, the tone of voice people used to coax children into taking nasty medicine. Or get the child to do something they knew the child would not want to do. He was that child now, was he? Just because he was as weak as one….

"We don't tell him," continued that light, female voice, but with more determination

now. She peered deep into his eyes to see if he was really inside the feeble shell of his body, was hearing her and taking notice.

"We don't tell John."

The face came closer. The eyes hardened. The last eyes Sherlock ever wanted to see

looking into his own.

"Look at me. And tell me you're not going to tell him."

 _Can't promise that. Wouldn't. John's safety is more important to me than your threats._

 _So kill me now, Mary. Make yourself safe if that is what you want. Safe from me. Do that for him, to at least keep John happy. Make him not torn any more, not having to choose between us. Like he felt before. When he only thought I was dead._

 _Just pull out the monitors and the machines and the drip and make it look like I did it; in my agony or my death throes. Hold the pillow over my head._

 _Or inject me with something handily lethal - they would never notice with my level of injury, the number of needles and opiates already stuck in me. The cause of death would be narrative so no-one would be suspicious and look for something properly lethal in itself. A murder of mercy hiding in plain sight._

 _Why not? Go on - do it. Preserve your new little perfect world. Yours and John's._

 _That will do it, Mary. Yes. That will work…._

He was in intense pain and deathly tired. Too tired to whisper. To even shake his head. He blinked heavy eyes with an effort as slowly the lids closed despite the orders he was shouting at them to stay open and face her down.

"We don't tell John!" She repeated.

 _Did she really think I had not heard her? Did she really think I would betray her and make John Watson suffer?_

 _Don't you know me at all, you lethal bitch?_

o0o0o

He thought at first it was the delirious imagination of the near death experience. The heightened delusions, the imaginary moving shadows. A childish desire of the weak and ill for consolation and comfort.

Someone - somehow - was stroking his head very gently, carding fingers through his hair, caressing the sensitive side of his neck with the lightest touch.

A face came down to his; to the side of his neck so it could not be seen, even if he had been up to moving his head to the side, to opening his eyes and just looking. Which he wasn't.

"Quiet, now. Relax. Just here to visit you. I wanted to see how you are. Still alive, I see. That is good. To thank you for being such a wonderful distraction to the lady. For that saved my life."

A deep tremulous breath whispered by his ear, channelled along his throat. His skin tightened with revulsion and what might have been fear.

"Your hair is beautiful. Strokeable. Like the rest of you. I could do this all night. But I cannot stay. Your devoted doctor will be back to your side in a moment. He will not want to see me here. Au revoir for now, Mr Holmes."

o0o0o

He was surrounded by voices, awake or asleep. Voices of doctors and nurses. Voices of visitors - mainly John Watson. Then another voice - such a familiar voice - was calling him back to the surface.

"Well, here we are again, brother mine. Don't the colonials call this state of affairs groundhog day? When the same constants repeat endlessly? You in a hospital bed at death's door. I sit by your side and wait. So boringly predictable."

A rustle of cloth as Mycroft Holmes leans forward. "So how stupid and headstrong were you being to get shot this time?"

He waited for an answer that did not come, clicked his tongue in annoyance.

"The doctors say you are not yet up to conversation. But knowing you, I do not believe them. Perhaps they were right for once. No matter." There was pause for thought.

"I told you about Magnussen. Begged you not to get involved. You ignored me yet again, like some juvenile Don Quixote who cannot find a windmill to tilt at so makes do with a press baron instead. How quaint. Idiotic, but quaint."

The sharper the monologue, the deeper the concern. Sherlock Holmes' older brother had one eye on the machines monitoring the patient, the other on the man himself; watching the naked chest - disfigured by a large white dressing - rising and falling shallowly and erratically. Noted the black shadows under the closed eyes, the skin tight across the bones of the pale face, the pained set of the mobile mouth.

He was heard; a slight twitch of the fingers of his brother's left hand responded.

"You will answer to me later. We have a conversation yet to endure, Sherlock. But don't fret. I am only here as your deputy jailer. I promised Dr Watson I would stay at your side while he went home for a bath and a change of clothes. His pathetic rediscovered loyalty means he has not left you for three days while you teetered on the edge of life trying to decide whether to tip over the side and leave us.

"Seems you will live, however. So the doctors think. I hope that is what you want, brother mine.

"Because to have an almost point blank injury centre mass means you looked into the face of the person who shot you - as you were being shot. Taunting someone, were you? Trying to get yourself killed? And do we assume from this the intended assassin is someone you know? Someone we both know, Sherlock? It does not take much of a guess to deduct the identity of the culprit.

"Have you the strength to deal with that, brother? And to deal with Dr Watson too? "

He watched his little brother shift fractionally, grimace with pain.

"We can wait. No-one is going anywhere. Least of all you."

o0o0o

The dark clouds rolled back again a little. A female voice with a hard edge cut through the fog.

"Don't bother opening your eyes and looking at me. I want to see you about as much as you want to see me."

The voice was angry and bitter and rushed. Yet quiet in delivery.

"I told you not to do this. I told you. You ignored me. I tried to terminate our contract, and you would not let me. I tried to stop you days ago. For your own good. And you stopped me. I warned you: I did. And now you have stopped a bullet. A bullet that was meant to have been for Magnussen.

"Can you never get anything right? Do you have to be such a total abject failure? If Magnussen had been shot instead of you he would be dead and we would all have been laughing. In the clear. Running free. And I wouldn't care less who bloody shot him, or why. I am so angry I could…."

She bit back words and thoughts, and he could hear her fighting to control her breathing. Return to her normal poised and calm objectivity.

"I must go. I cannot let your brother see me here, or he will start asking questions neither you nor I want to answer. The hospital will be updating me on your condition twice a day. If you need anything….I will arrange it. I am sorry, William."

He heard her walk away, the high heels smacking angrily down onto the floor, heard the door to his sideward open and close with deliberate care. And then she was gone.

o0o0o

"Wake up, you bugger. I know you're in there. How could you do this to me AGAIN?"

Lestrade's voice, ragged and with an unusual edge. Lestrade standing by the bed, Sally Donovan hovering uncomfortably behind him. And they had entered his room without him even being aware.

Even though it was Lestrade, it made him feel horribly vulnerable. He hated being a patient. And there was something not right. Something out of place

 _Sally Donovan clutching a bunch of carnations? For me?_

He tried to hold back the ripple of laughter that bubbled up despite everything - he could not afford the pain laughter would create. He didn't have the strength or the fortitude right now.

 _Flowers? Really? Clearly from a twenty four hour petrol station, clearly had seen better days. A last minute purchase, an indicator of hurried guilt. Serves her right. He must be dying then!_

"Hello Freak," she said as she saw his disillusioned eyes float towards her, and onto her flowers.

 _Don't grimace, Lestrade! Come on! What else would you have expected her to call me? Mr Holmes? Sherlock, dear? Donovan would never be so hypocritical! And I prefer that!_

His eyes rolled away from her, too tired for reaction, barely any awareness in them at all, it seemed. Sally Donovan frowned. In her line of work the risk of getting shot was part of the job. But she had somehow never expected that for Sherlock Holmes.

So feeling both relieved and guilty she was not the patient, she had succumbed to an uncharacteristic impulse to buy some bloody flowers. Not really out of sympathy, but a sort of relief best summed up as: 'there but for the grace of God….'

"Got you flowers…." she brandished them as if not quite sure what to do with them now she had them. Even semi conscious he could tell she was mesmerised by the large white dressing on his chest, his naked torso only partially covered by a blue sheet.

He also saw she was disturbed by his unnatural weakness and stillness; and he was then embarrassed for her, for himself, both - all three of them - seeing him so weakened.

 _Ordinary, mortal, weak and pathetic, vulnerable - and stupid enough to get shot. Yes. All of those things. Bloody, isn't it?_

Something in him bridled then, rose up to challenge that feeble summation of both himself and his visitors. Turned his shattered expression into one of ironic amusement at her discomfort. She watched him gather himself, but could still see he was in pain and holding onto consciousness by almost supernatural force of will. And felt oddly guilty.

"Sherlock, I don't get this. You are bullet proof. So how the hell DID you manage to get shot? " Lestrade ran his hands through his hair in a familiar gesture of frustration.

Then stepped closer to the bed, ran fingertips lightly across Sherlock Holmes's shoulder.

"Don't do this to me again, mate. I'm getting too old for hospital visiting." Lestrade sounded upset but trying to hide it behind a joke. He was looking deep into the consulting detective's face with an expression that excluded the almost forgotten Sally Donovan.

There was a moment of silence. With immense effort Sherlock Holmes fluttered a hand in Lestrade's direction, and Lestrade, untypically, reached down, caught and held it.

"S…s...sorry …." the whispered word stuttered it's way out, the voice unstable and unrecognisable in place of the usual smooth RP baritone.

"Hush, mate. Don't try and talk. You'll be OK. And we'll get whoever shot you. I promise Don't worry."

 _Not worried. I can get the shooter, but you can't. This time it is not your job, Greg, This one is mine. My mistake. My problem to sort._

The pale eyes flashed open, and there was a strange reaction in them that was no reassurance to Lestrade. Fear; or warning, perhaps; or even anger.

"No, don't get upset. Get better….."

Even through the imperfect reflected image of the window glass Sally Donovan - who had turned away to give the men some privacy - watched Lestrade smile a little, and Sherlock Holmes put his pain beyond himself for a moment and look up at Lestrade with something alien, indefinable. Lestrade looked about to cry.

"Are you listening to me? Taking in what I'm saying?" Lestrade spoke with quiet urgency. "I know you know why you are not dead."

The pale eyes looking into his stilled and focussed; moved as if to nod.

"You only got the one bullet, not the professional kill three-shot. Yes?"

 _For Christ's sake. Shut up, Greg._

An inclination of the eyes.

"Well, we've had the report back from ballistics on the bullet they took out of you. It had been decalibrated. Someone - some expert - had taken apart and downrated that bullet. Wanted to make the kill shot quieter and more precise. The shooter wanted to be up close for a silent point blank execution, not risk a long range shot. A true professional killer. Do you understand me, Sherlock?"

A tiny nod. A shift in those disconcerting eyes. Lestrade stared into those eyes, hypnotised yet again by the brown fleck above the right iris. Few people got to look so closely into the eyes of Sherlock Holmes that they would spot that unique yet fascinating imperfection.

He knew, Lestrade realised with sudden, cold certainty. Sherlock already knew both those things. Knew what he was going to tell him next? Of course he knew. This was Sherlock Holmes, after all.

"You were not the target. Magnussen was. Magnussen was going to be put down like a dog. You got in the way and were winged to keep you out of play. You saved Magnussen's life by being there on the spot, Sherlock. And I would love to know how and why."

The consulting detective was incapable of speech, Lestrade knew that. But the calm acceptance - not fear, not anger, not revulsion - that was in Sherlock Holmes's eyes meant he knew and understood - had always known and understood - everything Lestrade was telling him.

"Who shot you, Sherlock? You were facing the shooter - and he was close up to you; had to be to cause so much damage, with the bullet being weakened. Nearly as close as I am to you now. So you have to know. Who was it?" .

Sherlock Holmes blinked and pulled back into himself. Lestrade watched him do it; even while fighting to turn away from death's door there was still the unquenched implacable will of the man working so hard - something that had always made him so insular, so enigmatic, and just so irreplaceable.

Lestrade made a small sound in his throat, reached forward, almost as if trying to haul the man back to him. But also knew he had just lost him, despite being so ill, so damaged. Sherlock had stepped back into himself for reasons Lestrade could not begin to guess. And for reasons only Sherlock Holmes knew. Lestrade groaned with frustration.

The patient looked at him with hot strong eyes for a few telling seconds…until his eyelids closed slowly as the man returned inexorably into drug induced sleep.

"Oohh, you bastard," rumbled Lestrade, taking the carnations from Sally's hand and dumping them on the locker behind them, bundling her out of the room.

She heard the angry, impotent hike in Lestrade's breathing and didn't dare say a word. Because what could she say? And what did she know about anything anyway?

.

o0o0o

" Nice gaff you've got here. Allo, Sherlock,"

The East End growl could only belong to one person. Angelo Grimaldi, restautateur and housebreaker, sat opposite him, his bulk pouring over the sides of a tiny hospital chair, looking awkward, uncomfortable, but determined.

"Good to see yer. The nurse says you drift in and out, but to just talk anyway. She said I have ten minutes."

He paused, looked round at the sterile, bright white surroundings. Glared at the tubes and attachments monitoring Sherlock, delivering pain relief and oxygen and keeping him alive.

"I hate hospitals." he told the room.

He put a bunch of grapes ("Vitamin C; good fer yer") a get well card ("signed by everyone") and a black wreath down on the locker beside Sherlock's head.

"The flowers are from the lads in C Block at Pentonville. They thought you'd appreciate the joke," Angelo explained, knowing the black wreath would have been more likely to be presented at a funeral. "They thought ordinary flowers would be a bit too ordinary for you. But they wanted to send something with their best wishes. Had a whip round."

Sherlock risked a brief nod, and Angelo relaxed somewhat.

"Brother Carlo's in there now, you know. Five brothers, and I'm the only one legit."

Sherlock nodded again.

"Takes a bit of living down, you know, going straight. I always tell everyone it's Sherlock Holmes's fault. What you did for me. Can never thank you enough; you know that. Don't normally do speeches, but when mates are at death's door…you never know if you'll get the chance again. So I had to come. Don't tell anyone." He squirmed a bit on his chair.

"You get out of here as soon as you can, Sherlock. We miss you out on the street. And when you're back bring everyone over to mine for a slap up meal. On the house, of course."

He watched Sherlock's eyelids flicker down, struggle to rise again.

"No, no. Don't stay awake for me. Sleep's good, even for you. Just get better. 'Cos you're missed. That's the message from everyone, so I'm passing it on. "Gotta go, time to open up for the lunchtime trade. See you soon, Sunshine!"

 _Angelo, stay!_

Sherlock felt fresh air had swept into and out of his room. The black wreath, which had all subsequent visitors tut- tutting at the inappropriateness of it, or laughing at the black humour, was in his eyeline, and was a little consoling something to finally make him smile.

o0o0o

The worst time was, to any patient, the middle of the night. The night time hours lasted longer than the daytime ones, and pain always seemed worse, more distracting.

Sherlock Holmes drifted in and out of sleep and pain and boredom, listening to the machines calling out to each other as they monitored his bodily functions, the muffled sounds of a busy hospital geared down to sleep.

A nurse slid in silently through the door to check on him; his peripheral vision noted the slim figure, the brisk body language, the blue uniform, and he relaxed again. He was used to this boring but necessary regular punctuation to both day and night. Cursed himself for being so alert - because there was no way he could defend himself - but when the nearest thing he could manage to being alert was so inadequate, he was nervous, on edge.

He felt her lift his notes from the clip on the end of the bed, take time studying them, replace them in their clip and move to his head.

A cool hand rested on his forehead. And Sherlock's attention jolted into gear. Nurses did not do the Florence Nightingale stuff anymore, not with digital thermometers….nor do they normally carry with them an aroma of Paco Raban! And hadn't two nurses come in for the boring essential jobs of caring for the transport less than an hour ago?

"How are you feeling now, Mr Holmes?"

He knew that voice. But his reactions were slow, so slow, and surprise made it hard to

focus.

"Sshh, don't struggle. It's only me. I wanted to see for myself how you really are."

The hand lightly stroking his temple curved slowly and sinuously down his throat,

travelled along his shoulder, slid delicate fingertips down his torso. Sherlock sucked in a quick harsh breath despite himself. The same featherlight touch skipped a little then, almost playfully, traced a line from one side to the other along sensitive skin just under the edge of the sheet laid modestly across his abdomen. And then tracked lazily back again.

"Hmmn. Allowing for a rather impressive bullet hole,,,,,you're pretty fit, I would say.

And I am an expert."

A low laugh reached his ears, a hum of appreciation.

As his eyes finally obeyed him and opened, she moved away so he could not see her face.

"Get well soon. Au revoir, Junior," she trilled and was gone.

For several hours he was certain he had imagined it, that her presence had been a dream. A tantalising tease of the hallucinating senses, a drug induced dream.

But when he was sat up in daylight by a very different nurse, the first thing he saw on the counter opposite him was a single red rose in a specimen vase, with a card

attached that simply carried a baroque design in black and the signature of an ornate letter W. It had not been there last night.

o0o0o

When the door of his side ward opened quietly, after the morning jobs and the consultant's visit, in the quiet time while John Watson went home for breakfast and a break, there was an unexpected visitor.

Sherlock Holmes, exhausted by the exertions of early morning hospital routine, rolled his half open eyes to the side to see a tall, lean, man with beard and rimless glasses enter. His heart jolted in shock and anticipation, and sheer horror at his exposed naked body and his physical vulnerability.

"They are not all from me," said the soft, inflexionless voice with it's light Scandinavian accent as it's owner gestured dismissively towards all the flowers. "The

struggling carnations are from Scotland Yard. And the single rose is from…." he bent to look at the card, looked up again and smiled vaguely. "W. The black wreath is from C Block…" for a moment Sherlock zoned out the quiet murmuring of Charles Augustus Magnusson.

 _Yes, yes, I already know all that. So that means the cream lilies delivered anonymously without card or message were from you, then, were they? How interesting. No card, but pale strange flowers from a pale strange man…..how appropriate. How creepy._

He concentrated down hard to control his breathing, his physical reaction. Then felt rather than saw Magnusson draw a chair to the bedside and sit on it. Quiet, measured movements. A man who felt he was in control of the room and everything within in.

He pulled a breath, waited for Magnussen to speak again. But the man stayed quiet; even though Sherlock could feel the older man's eyes on him. Eyes travelling, roaming his body as possessively as if they were hands, hands leaving bruises on the tortured alabaster skin. It was all he could do not to flinch. And if he could have moved, could have reached down, he would have protectively pulled the thin sheet over his abdomen and genitals higher to cover his nakedness. Modesty, protection and warmth all in one.

Then, surprised and appalled, he felt Magnusson begin to gently and deliberately stroke his right forearm between the BP cuff and the identity bracelet. Lift his right

hand, then carefully remove the oximeter probe from his middle finger.

Sherlock Holmes struggled not to panic, to open his eyes slowly, not wrench them wide with horror, not try to tear his hand free in sudden disgust. Because he knew he was not able to that. And he was frightened now, defenceless as well as naked. He hated being touched at the best of times, but being touched by Magnusson - Magnusson of the damp clinging unhealthy hands and the unhealthy mind, the man he hated most in all the world, and of whom he made no secret of hating - was unbearable.

Was he being hypnologic? Hypnopompic? Imagining this obscenity in that strange state between sleep and wakefulness to torture himself for letting Mary Morstan shoot him? Punishment for not hunting down and exposing Mary Morstan when his first instinct had been to do so? Killing his own fear and alarmed instincts so John could be happy? Happy. Whatever that meant. Either way he kept his eyes and expression dull and neutral, pretended to be worse, more drugged, than he actually was. To take the opportunity to stay detached and just watch….

"Oh, I covet your hands, Mr Holmes. But there, since you have survived, I guess you get to keep them."

 _A joke? A subjective compliment? From Magnusson? John would say this was getting_ _scary, now._

Sherlock rolled his eyes to watch Magnusson and Magnusson, seeing Sherlock watching, began to caress each finger of his right hand with sensuous and deliberate slowness.

"A musician's hands. An artist's…"

Magnusson looked Sherlock square in the eyes and as he did so kissed the back of

Sherlock's hand with a repressed, almost possessed, sexuality.

"A woman's?"

The question hung in the air. Sherlock quelled his revulsion and told himself he was imagining it. Hypnopompia. Hypnologia. Definitely. He shook his head slightly to clear the image. Blinked. Magnusson was still holding his hand and looking deep into his eyes. Let the hand fall. Sherlock felt it fall, and realised then he had imagined othing….

"Apologies for the dampness of my touch. You'll get used to it."

 _I don't think so, Mr Magnusson. But the way you lust after me is so strange. For us both. Not just manipulation, as I had thought. But it is something real you think you feel for me, isn't it? Gives me power, Charles. Power to use against you._

 _You think I am currently away with the fairies and haven't a clue what you are doing to me…yet I can see you rubbing your hands together in anticipation of touching me again. You're not going to drool on me, are you Mr Magnusson? Because that would be just too embarrassing._

"Having shot you, the woman you know as Mary Watson left without killing me,"

Magnusson spoke clearly, softly and conversationally, replacing the probe he had removed gently back onto Sherlock's index finger. "Which is odd, because that was the reason she came."

 _So why have you come just to tell me this? Because you think I will feel I owe you_ _something in return? To bargain with your knowledge and your silence? To expect gratitude? To make a lever? To - what - woo me?_

Magnusson stood, and Sherlock assumed he was going to leave, and closed his eyes. But Magnusson only moved to stand at his head. Leant down and in. Sherlock opened his eyes with a protective snap then, expressionless grey eyes locking with expressionless pale blue ones.

"I did not pass on her identity to the police."

 _Bravo. So what do you expect me to do? Kiss you in gratitude?_

No fevered thought, that. Magnusson had brought his face so close to that of the consulting detective their noses touched, and Sherlock could feel their breath mingle.

"Information like that is just too…." he paused, and Sherlock felt Magnusson's lips ghost past his own. "…valuable to be shared."

There was a world of subtext in the final word, and despite himself Sherlock's eyes shocked wide. This was not the Magnusson he knew or would - could - have expected. If he had felt well enough to be revolted he would have been repulsed. Somnophilia. Necrophilia. Yes.

"Wouldn't you agree?" Magnusson's eyes stayed locked onto his.

Sherlock had always had the acting ability to cry to order to manipulate others, but this time the acting came easy and unforced. Tears formed softly in eye corners to indicate to Magnusson a real weakness, a lack of proper consciousness. He forced himself to let his eyelids flicker slowly down despite his instinct to keep looking Magnusson in the face, to know he was still safe from the older man's contact. Untouched. Not humiliated.

Magnusson had given himself away because he really, really did think Sherlock was unaware, virtually unconscious. A breathing plaything. And Sherlock wanted and needed Magnusson to believe that. That he had not noticed the revealing sensuality of an otherwise emotionless man.

He felt Magnusson cross the room, open the door and let himself out without another word, without saying goodbye.

Sherlock's eyes flew open then. There was no-one else in the room. His eyes closed from the effort and he was instantly asleep. But he did not forget the encounter. Or the single advantage he had needed and had now found to be able to play Magnusson at his own game. At last! As soon as he was fit again.

 _Get better! Damn this feeble, useless transport. Betraying me and giving out on me - being weak, yet again. Get better! Get better now! Lives depend on this!_

TO BE CONTINUED….

 **Author's Notes:**

This is a very difficult section of _His Last Vow_ to recreate to remain in any way true to canon, as medically speaking it is all total fiction and only very loosely related to any sort of medical reality.

The specifics and degree of damage from the shooting is never specified, and a GSW in that place should normally be fatal: I have utilised the only technical reasons possible for Sherlock to have survived the shooting.

To return from the dead in the way he does - The Lazarus Phenomenon - is rare but well documented. His recovery to well enough to be up and away in a week should also be impossible; But then, this IS Sherlock Holmes!

There are some excellent medically based stories covering this part of _His Last Vow._ As this is not my speciality, I was more interested in post shooting reaction and input to the brilliant brain trapped in a damaged and unresponsive body.

For a medical perspective version of this part of the _HLV_ story, I strongly recommend a reading of the superb _Fratos, Eros and Agape_ by **Kate 221B**. And wish to thank her for invaluable advice, help, input encouragement and beta on this chapter. I could not have done it without her!. And now read on and enjoy her own superb stories too!

Parts of this story will be recognised from the earlier O'Donnell short story 'Hospital Visiting.'

The story of the friendship between Sherlock Holmes and Angelo Grimaldi is told in the O'Donnell short story 'At Angelo's.'

RP - Received Pronunciation. The proper descriptive technical term for Sherlock Holmes's public school upper class accent.

The Magnussen hand fetish scene in the hospital is a genuine deleted scene from _His Last Vow_ that appears in the shooting script, was filmed, but removed from the final edit. It can be viewed on You Tube (Sherlock deleted scenes) or as an extra feature on the Special Edition DVD of _Sherlock: Series Three._

To read the original shooting script for _His Last Vow_ go to  sites/default/files/Downloads/Sherlock_Ep3_ 

Some of the deletions and changes make fascinating reading; including mention by Mycroft of a sister that was also removed in the final edit and changed to 'you know what happened to the other one.'.


	23. Chapter 23

Things We Lost In The Flames

Some of this will be recognised from the episode. Most of it, however, will not.

Chapter 23: 'do you understand….'

Breathing had never been such hard work. Every breath was painful labour. Getting harder. Something physical, something being imposed on his body from outside himself. His eyes snapped open to see why.

Moriarty was kneeling on his chest. Wearing that sharp Westwood suit with the Spencer Hart shirt and tie. Button black eyes in that vicious little leprechaun face burning into his with a mad light to them. A rictus grin, showing sharp perfect teeth, spittle on his lips.

"C'mon, Sherlock. Just die, why don't you? Can't you see I'm trying to help you here? Trying to force all that nasty air out of your lungs for you."

He made a huge effort to try to snipe a reply, rocked forward a little and grunted with the pain of it.

"I'm here, Sherlock. I'll save you!"

A figure appeared behind Moriarty. Just not the one he had been expecting.

" _Mary!"_

She was wearing her wedding dress, cream vintage lace. The Walther PPK looked incongruous in her hand…surely it was a bouquet she should be holding? Flowers, not firepower? She raised the gun without preamble or warning this time, and simply shot.

The heavy calibre bullet passed straight through Moriarty, who huffed a little breath of annoyance and grinned to himself at the orgasmic thrill of the impact. As the bullet bounced off Sherlock and ricocheted who-knew-where, a huge hole sprayed open in Moriarty's torso, and the blood splatter covered Sherlock in gore, and he scrunched up his face to stop his eyes being flooded with the red hot red liquid.

But Moriarty kept laughing, and the blood kept coming. The blood was rising in a tide up his body now, and Sherlock felt he was drowning in it. He reared up, gasping and gulping for air.

 _They will kill me! Damn the two of them! They keep killing me!_

 _Hang on! How many times have I had this dream?_

At that thought Mary and Moriarty disappeared.

Shock jolted open his eyes through a tumult of oxygen starvation silver stars. And a hand caught him gently - _oh, too gently -_ as he jarred forward. A cool hand on his shoulder; another behind his head to stop him jarring harder backwards in recoil and hitting the bedhead, ripping out the lines and tubes connecting him to machinery.

Without conscious thought he registered a white sterile room, himself the only occupant. A private side ward now….hazy memories of other beds, even more machines: already moved from the ITU ward, then?

"Moriarty! He's here!" He screamed a whisper.

"Sssh, Sherlock. You're OK. No Moriarty. Relax."

Sherlock Holmes looked up into worried speedwell blue eyes in a square, open face. Blond hair with a premature sprinkling of grey.

"John? What…?"

"Here. As ever. You were shot. Remember?"

 _We don't tell him. We don't tell John!_

"Yes. No. Talking hurts….."

"Yeah, that's the deal when you're shot through a lung. You end up with a plastic tube down your throat doing your breathing for you. Typical bloody drama queen, as ever. Anyhow it's gone now. You're on the way back."

"How long…..?"

"Five days. I've been with you most of the time. Remember?"

 _John. My friend - Doctor John Watson. Or is this an ex friend caring and overcompensating? Feeling guilty?_

 _But he looks worried. Crumpled. Needs a shave and sleep. Bags under his eyes, with crows feet very deep now, grey tinge to his skin. Shirt wrinkled, jumper creased and grubby on the edges of the sleeves. Needs a shower. Needs a rest. Worried, yes - too worried._

 _Oh. Worried about me? Dying then? God. Please God, not worried about me. More important things for him to worry about…like Mary. And what Magnussen plans for her. How can I tell him? Feel too ill to think properly, or plan what to do and how…stuck here, weak as water. Private side ward, intensive care bed. Bad signs….._

John Watson leant in closer to the patient. His patient? He held Sherlock Holmes safe and still between his arms and seemed reluctant to let go.

 _Hug? Doctors don't_ _ **hug**_ _\- no, no, he is a doctor. Just being a doctor. Stopping me from falling. Not being emotional, or distressed or relieved or….._

 _Try not to panic. Let him do this! Let him! He is also supposed to be a friend whose wife is supposed to be a nurse. But she's an assassin. So what does that make him? An enemy, or a friend, and the closest…hang on, does any of this compute any more?_

Physically John Watson was too close now for Sherlock Holmes' comfort or sense of propriety. He could not bear being touched at the best of times. But being touched like this, held so intimately, by the one person who meant so much but was now so alien, it was a terrifying scenario he could do without, yet could do nothing about. Too ill, too much in pain, to move away.

He could not bear this display of care…..no, _not care as in emotionally involved. - caring as in looking after; so just calm down. This is care as a mere mechanical_ _response because That Is What Doctors Do. Just calm down_ …. _Watson's complicity here just demonstrates his relative physical and emotional weakness, a distasteful display of common humanity. Why does he not know I do not want this repugnant purely human need for support to be humoured?_

 _Watson will never forget this. This weakness will diminish me in his eyes, and I need John Watson's regard like I have never wanted anything else on this earth. How pathetic to even have to think this! Might as well be dying if I am going to be so feeble now….but I need John Watson's respect above all things. Or else how do I tell him the truth about his wife and have him believe me?_

 _Such pathetic weaknesses to defeat - all this damage, all this caring; he will think I tell him our awful secret, Mary's and mine, out of weakness, out of need for him. Driven by physical pain, or jealousy, or revenge, or out of my arrogance, my need and power playing and….Shut up. How can I tell him at all? Why am I torturing myself trying to justify a crying need for what is simple honesty…?_

And so terrified that in his weakness, his current and constant shift between consciousness and unconscious he will gibber without restraint or realisation and tell John Watson the secret about his wife at the wrong time, and without ever intending to.

 _Careless talk costs lives. I do not want to make careless talk. To betray Mary and destroy John. I want my own silence. Control of my silence. I want oblivion._

"Go…" his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He needed to castigate John Watson. Abuse and demean him. Drive him away. Make the doctor march out into the night with a muttered 'I need some air….' just as he used to when he lived at Baker Street and the Sherlock miasma became too much to take - oh, so long ago now; so long ago yet so close in his mind's eye - and he tried to swallow, to lubricate his mouth so the words sounded as well as formed on his lips. "…..'way."

His pale angry eyes burnt harshly into Watson's dark, compassionate ones.

"What did you say?" Watson asked; even though Sherlock could see from the shadow that passed over his face he had heard and understood.

"Go….away!"

 _Ah, that's better. Louder. A two word hissy fit. Not bad, Holmes. That will do it. That will work. Keep it up._

"I'm not leaving you, Sherlock "

The still gentle hand curved around his shoulder eased him back into his semi recumbent position on the pillows, the hand behind his head gentled the curls a little. It was all Sherlock Holmes could do not to moan into the touch, as if he was a small child: comfort he had never had then, should neither have nor need now as an adult. Even deep in the depth of shock and pain and weakness he bridled.

"Go. Home. To Mary."

"She knows I'm here. She knows you need me. It's OK."

John Watson tried a smile in reassurance. Held the fingertips of the right hand closest to him, the hand with the cannula in the back of it, attached to the arm with the drip connected.

 _So what concoction is in there now? Who cares what it is if it's working? Stop chasing the brain, just be grateful for it…_

"Not….OK. Don't need YOU. Anybody."

"John Watson's face twisted into an expression of infinite hurt and sadness. Squeezed the long skeletal fingers in his square capable hand.

"Look. I know…." he hesitated, looking intently into his friend's eyes; such an intent look Sherlock closed his own eyes in a slow blink to avoid the sight. "…I know I have not been the friend you have needed since you came back from the dead. I'm sorry. I'll make that right."

"Don't have friends."

"Yeah, I know. You've said that before, but I didn't go then, either, did I?" He could hear the tolerance in the voice, the emotional allowances being made. Could even hear the smile. Angered by it all.

"That was then."

 _Breathe deep. Gather strength. Gather courage. Say it._

"Piss off."

He closed his eyes. So tired. Fallen. So defeated.

As he drifted back down into blackness and exhaustion again he was still listening. Hearing always the last sense to go. Listening to hear Watson stand, cross the room, open the door and leave.

Instead the whispered words that reached him were promise and vow and determination:

"Someone has to protect you from Moriarty. I'm staying, Sherlock."

o0o0o0o

"You are still very unwell, but they are now quite confident you will live. Astonishing in itself how few people exercise the Lazarus Phenomenon and come back from death. Apart from you, that is.

"You have had CT scans which reveal that dying has not affected your brain. Well, we could have told them _that_ ourselves, could we not? Far too much bone where a brain should be."

Mycroft Holmes is back. John Watson has left. To bathe, sleep, relate to his wife. The thing that worries Sherlock Holmes most about that is he will be back. But for the moment he can relax and just be a patient. Concentrate on recovery.

"Get me out of here," he growled, voice so low it almost registers on the Richter Scale.

"Your ambition surpasses the reality of your situation. Accept that you are still not far removed from death's door. Should be dead."

"My mistake."

Mycroft Holmes frowned. True, but harsh. Whichever of his many mistakes the patient referred to. But even so ill, the implacable bloody minded determination of his little brother was always unsettling.

"Indeed so," he agreed with a coldness intended to be soothing. "Ridiculous to enter a room alone without back-up. With only an assassin and the potential victim in there together. Whatever were you thinking of?"

 _I thought it was Lady Smallwood. I thought I was preventing a woman's ruin and an embarrassing international incident. And if you think I'm telling you that…!_

"Natural exuberance?"

"I shall not deign to honour that remark with a reply."

Mycroft Holmes took a deep breath, dispassionately watched his left hand tense convulsively around his umbrella handle, and settled his briefcase on the knee he was trying not to jiggle and reveal the stress he was under.

"You are clearly not well enough for this conversation. But needs must, and time is pressing. So have this conversation we shall, Sherlock. The conversation I promised the last time I saw you. So do try to keep up, brother dear."

He watched his little brother tense, look assessing in return, as if peering through fog.

"Watson will return ...disturb you."

"No. He won't. I told him to stay away until tomorrow. I sounded terribly solicitous for his welfare. And promised him - cross my heart and hope to die - that I would stay with you while he was away. " A tight, hard little smile and a pause. "He could hardly refuse to do what he was told."

"Wanted him gone," Sherlock murmured agreement.

Always told you caring was not an advantage," Mycroft stated.

"Indeed."

 _Go away, Mycroft. Too tired. Too old._

The two clashed eyes. Neither commented further. Mycroft Holmes straightened his spine, and spoke in a different voice. His official voice: level, icy, perfectly articulated.

"What were you doing at CAM News headquarters anyway? When I had already warned you off having anything to do with that man?"

"Not seeing Magnussen." The younger brother shook his head, stopped suddenly. That reactive movement had hurt. "Irresistible temptation to propose marriage to my girlfriend. If you must know."

Mycroft Holmes for once in his life spluttered in disbelief.

"I beg your pardon? I may have misheard."

"No. Ask John."

"Why have him with you for such an intimate manoeuvre? I am assuming it was a manoeuvre?"

""So he'd believe it." A pained grin, curled lip, teeth showing. "Engaged. Yes."

"For the moment I shall take that reply at it's surface value."

"Ring in coat pocket. Check." Eyes sliding away.

 _Listen. Why do you never listen to me?_

Impasse. The brothers scowled at each other.

"This conversation…." Mycroft began.

"Too ill," Sherlock replied, sighed. Looked away, eased himself back deep into the pillows resulting in an exhausted gasp. His machines and monitors hummed on in disconcerting rhythm.

"True. You look like death. On the other hand, tackling you when damaged, drugged and off guard is my best chance to get truth or honesty from you." He paused. "So what would you do if you were me?"

"Nothing."

"No-o-o," The negative smoothly elongated. "Not at all. The obvious question first. Who shot you?"

 _Oh, here we go…_

"Dunno. Traumatic amnesia."

"How convenient."

"Yes. Sorry." He didn't sound sorry at all. "Tired…."

"Don't push it, brother mine. Kindness is not good for you. So you don't get any." Mycroft Holmes's tone was caustic. His brother did not react.

"You have a relationship with Magnussen. I warned you against it. You persisted. Why?"

"Bloodyminded?"

Sherlock coughed, arched in pain, clutched his chest carefully around his wound. Turned white. Mycroft remained impassive and simply waited.

"A proper answer, Sherlock. Stop prevaricating. I see through you."

He waited through silence, then changed tack.

"Tell me about your involvement with Lord and Lady Smallwood."

"Nothing there."

"YES THERE BLOODY IS!"

Four shouted words revealed just how stressed he was. Mycroft swallowed his anger with difficulty. Sank back down into the chair. Took a deep breathe and controlled himself.

"Will you stop lying and evading?"

His brother looked at him with empty eyes which suggested nothing except convenient deafness.

"Sherlock. Listen to me. Tell the truth. I KNOW. Understand me? I know."

A slight shrug.

"You know nothing."

"Oh, for…..!" He looked away and forced his anger to submit to his will. " Let's start again." A deep breath.

"You went to the office of Charles Augustus Magnussen after hours. Did you break in?"

"No. My fiancee-to-be let us in."

"And?"

"We found she and a security man had been knocked out while we were in transit. I heard a noise upstairs. Knew Magnussen should have been away at a function - so went to investigate."

"Leaving John Watson conveniently behind to witness precisely nothing?"

"To care for the victims. He's a doctor, you know. And will confirm."

"He has. I don't feel inclined to believe him. But then, he would walk through hell for you, so one little lie….."

"No lie. And he is not that loyal. Not any more."

"He has not left your side for the past week."

"Guilt. Irrelevant. You said it yourself when I returned from the dead last time - he has moved on"

"Hmn."

Mycroft Holmes watched his brother slide down the bed a little, face drawn and eyelids fluttering.

"I ask again. Who shot you?"

"Can't remember. Ask Magnussen."

"I have. He cannot remember either. Isn't double amnesia convenient?"

His brother smiled secretly to himself, but did not reply.

"I am losing patience with you, Sherlock. Bear in mind I brought you back after you tried to kill yourself as a teenager. And I saved your life again only months ago bringing you out of Serbia. I am here for you. I am always here for you."

"You want gratitude now?"

No. Just making my point." He sighed and gathered himself.

"Sherlock: I _know_. Do you hear me?"

"You know nothing." Again.

"You are wrong, for once. I know who shot you. I know who you were trying to save. And I know who you were trying to protect." He paused. With barely suppressed pain added: "And I know what Magnussen has on you."

His brother's eyes slid slowly round to meet his.

"Shut up. I am tired. Just been shot, Mycroft. Full of drugs. Not thinking clearly."

I don't care. I am so angry with you I could….." He stopped himself from shouting again with an effort.

"Lock me up and throw away the key? Again?"

"No. Not that at all. Why could you not tell me? Confide in me? Ask for my help?"

"Because you are you. And I am me."

"We could have avoided this. If we had worked together."

"You had your chance to confide in me. The day you accused me of doing drugs. The very day I was shot."

"And you had your chance to confide in me."

"You are not a person one can confide in."

"And nor are you."

"You are not going to trick me into admitting anything, Mycroft. Just tell me what you think you know."

"I don't _think_ anything."

He flicked open the briefcase on his knee and took out a series of glossy sheets which he held as he spoke.

"Magnussen continues to maintain he remembers nothing that happened on that day from around 3pm until the point at which the police questioned him after you had been taken to hospital.

"By the time my team arrived to take over investigation from the police Magnussen had been whisked off to hospital himself for a check up to make sure his memory loss was unrelated to a blow to the head, a drug incident or mental trauma. Conveniently so.

"Working on the presumption that if Magnussen said he remembered nothing he could not officially notice anything searched, moved or amiss either, I ordered a detailed sweep of his office and safe. And look what was found."

He flicked the photographs one at a time from his hand onto the counterpane covering his brother's lap.

 _This is not déjà vu or an opiate dream, this is happening…!_

"Mary Morstan. John Watson. Dr Hooper and Mrs Haig. Do you need to see the last photographs?"

"No."

Mycroft brandished them regardless. Waved them in the air.

"I should think not. I would have been appalled enough if they had been merely _memoires_ from your past. The fact that these are recent is…hmn…even more abhorrent, shall we say?"

"A case…just a case," justified the quiet reply.

"I warned you off Magnussen. I did. And yet you…." he shook his head, beyond words for a moment. "Clearly with him. Are there no depths to which you will not descend?"

"You have it wrong. All wrong."

"What angers me most….." Mycroft would not be deflected. "What infuriates me so much…is that Lady Smallwood told me nothing of what was going on either. How did you get her involved in this nasty little case of yours?"

"She came to me. Asked me."

"I don't believe you."

"Ask her, then. Make her tell. How her husband was about to be blackmailed by Magnussen. And how so many other people would be involved."

"She could have passed it to me to deal with."

"Not government business. Personal. She and Jack were ashamed. How could I refuse her? Him? All the others being dragged in…..?" A pause for breath. "How did you know this? Did she tell you?"

Mycroft Holmes looked at his brother with a level unreadable look.

His hand went back into the briefcase and came out with a small parcel in a brown paper envelope, soft and velvety with age. He opened the envelope and took out the contents. Which he handed to his brother complete.

Sherlock Holmes looked down. Letters written in a youthful hand on pale pink paper. Photographs and postcards.

He read the start of the first letter.

 _Darling Jack,"_ he read. _"I am writing this in bed and thinking of you. Wishing you were here beside me so I could talk to you instead. Is that childishly romantic of me?"_

He broke off and looked up at his brother.

"These are the Smallwood letters. From Ellen Catherine Driscoll to Jack Smallwood. Where in hell did you find these?"

"In Magnussen's penthouse of course. Hidden, most unoriginally, in the back of the cutlery drawer."

"What are you going to do with them?"

"Return them to Jack, of course. What else?"

"Why have you not done so already?"

"I needed you to see them first. To believe me. For you believe me as reluctantly as I believe you."

He nodded, could not speak. All that effort. All that worry and effort and pain. And Mycroft had found the letters in a kitchen drawer. It would be laughable if it wasn't so appalling. He restrained himself from reacting.

"Which means the case is over, Sherlock. You are done."

"Not quite. You said you knew the identity of the shooter."

"Of course I do. But she killed no-one, in the end. Went to kill Magnussen and shot you instead. I doubt you will press charges. There is no evidence, no DNA, no CCTV to identify the shooter. So the question is this: what do YOU intend to do about her?"

"You cannot ask me that. Not here. Not now."

"Perhaps. But you shall think about it, and you will tell me. Does John Watson know?"

"No." It was a whisper.

"Do you plan to tell him?"

"Not unless I have to. You?"

"Not my affair. Not me she is will turn on again to keep her secrets safe."

"Shut up."

"Your choice, Sherlock. Your survival. Perhaps John Watson's too. If he should ever unwittingly come near the truth about her. "

"Go away."

"For now. But this is not over Sherlock. Only over for you."

"Something like this…is never over, Mycroft."

"It is for you. Look at you, child. Ill and feeble and barely the right side of death. All over."

He gathered the photographs from the bed and returned them to the briefcase, his face the impassive mask of the civil servant. His brother neither looked at him nor bade him goodbye.

Sherlock Holmes impersonated sleep. His night was long.

o0o0o0o

Janine Hawkins exploded into the room before breakfast in a cloud of Black Opium, full of self righteous indignation and rustling newsprint.

"Sherlock Holmes! You are a…" all hot Irish temper, a flurry of passionate red dress and black cardigan whirled in front of Sherlock's face as his eyes flared open with the loud and sudden entrance.

She stopped dead as soon as she saw him. Shocked at the sight of him so pale and prostrate. Eyes half open in the hinterland between awake and unconscious, almost naked, thinner than ever. Impossibly weak and with a large white dressing on his chest and tubes and monitors surrounding him while passing in and out of his body.

Until that moment - that very moment - she had not believed what she had been told; that he had been shot. Had died and returned to life. Still close to death's door, critical, and in intensive care.

This was his sick joke. A scam, a case. A game.

Now she looked, and realised this was no joke. That his brother, the doctors, John Watson, who had all been keeping her from seeing him - even trying to speak to him on the phone - had really needed to protect and succour him. This was no joke. Sherlock bloody Holmes!

Her heart twisted in her chest, despite herself. Despite her cynicism and resentment and her injured pride.

She kissed him on the forehead and tidied a lock of hair, stepped back and looked at

him.

"You OK?" she could see he had to fight his way to the surface to engage with her, and she could tell he was not playacting. He opened his mouth, but no sound came. He frowned, coughed, and finally whispered: "No ill effects from being knocked out by a burglar?"

She clicked her tongue at him as if in temper.

"More ill effects from being lied to," she complained. "Proposed to indeed! Bought an engagement ring! You lied! Just to get into Magnusson's office…."

She stoked her anger back to life. Waved the morning newspapers at him.

Headlines. He read them, appalled, torn between horror, amusement, regret at loss of privacy, and -mostly - at the shameless lies.

 _Sherlock Is As Red-Blooded As They Come, Claims Fiancee_ was the mildest. _Seven_ _Times A Night In Baker Street,_ read one. _Shag-A-Lot Holmes,_ said another. _He Made_

 _Me Wear The Hat_ topped an article showing Janine wearing his deerstalker.

Sherlock thought rapidly. This should scotch the rumours about him and John Watson being a couple. Would this put Magnusson off - or make him feel that trying to use

him now would now be just more of a challenge? Because Sherlock was now positively unattached to anyone? He thought the latter and tried not to smile to himself. Janine would never understand.

Janine seemed disappointed when he did not rise to the bait, merely asking urgently if she had sold her kiss and tell story to Magnusson? She denied it, claimed that her boss was 'spitting' about it. And grinned at him with a sense of victory.

"I've made a lot of money out of you, mister," she said. Explained selling her kiss-and-tell story had made enough money to buy a cottage on the Sussex Downs. Sherlock nodded and smiled, part of him impressed by the opportunism. Janine would not suffer because of his lies and dalliance.

"You are a back stabbing, heartless, manipulative bastard!" she complained. But it seemed to him her heart was really no longer in the anger.

He pressed the switch which lifted the head of his bed and met her eyes.

"You, as it turns out, are a grasping, opportunistic, publicity hungry tabloid whore,"he responded.

"So we're good then?" she grinned at him.

"Yes, of course." And he grinned back.

They smiled at each other in accord, and no-one else would ever know how much of the marriage proposal and office break in had been planned between two people or

just one. Because in the final analysis Janine had been enriched in more ways than one by the experience. And they both knew it. He laughed, and the movement caused by a spasm of pain that had him groan and gasp and catch his breath.

"Hurts, does it?" she asked with interest. "You probably want to reset your morphine. I might have fiddled with the taps."

She smiled again.

"How much more revenge are you going to need?" he asked, turning to the morphine pump and raising the levels high.

Just the occasional top up," she said offhandedly, watching him. Made a comment about how the drugs were so accessible….

"Not good for working," Sherlock replied, still fiddling with medication levels.

"You won't be working for a while, Sherl," she determined quietly, suddenly intent and serious. "You lied to me. You lied and lied. "

"Exploited the fact of our connection," Sherlock explained.

"When?" she exclaimed hotly, then, as if the words came unbidden: "Just once would have been nice."

For a moment he did not understand her meaning. When he did he slid his eyes away from hers as if ashamed.

"Oh! I was waiting until we got married," he excused himself.

"That was never going to happen!" She laughed at the very idea of wanting to bed Sherlock Holmes; as if it had never been in her mind. Stood up. "Got to go. Not supposed to keep you talking…."

 _I wish you weren't…whatever it is you are._

 _I know….._

She kissed him on the forehead, wiped off the lipstick she had left there, muttered something about an interview on _The One Show_ and not having 'made it up yet.'

Sherlock pulled a wry face and she paused half out of the door.

"Just one thing. You shouldn't have lied to me. I know what kind of man you are. But we could have been friends."

She heard the genuine regret in her voice, smiled back at him to lessen the impact.

"I'll give your love to John and Mary!" and was gone.

Sherlock was thoughtful for a moment, aware of a pang of - what? Missed opportunity? Loneliness? A friendship failed before it started? He grimaced. Lay back and arched with pain. Reached for the blessed morphine.

The phrase he could not forget from all her words repeats and repeats itself in his head….

"You won't be working for a while, Sherl….."

o0o0o0o

"Hi yer, Shezza."

Billy Wiggins sidled through a tiny gap in the door and a Tesco carrier bag appeared from under his filthy parka.

"Got all the stuff on yer list. Coat, suit, shirt, shoes. Easy peasy - just waited for Mrs H to nip to the shops and in like a flash with yer keys. Now Doctor Watson don't live

there nobody will even know I've been in."

Sherlock nodded.

"Got yer phone. Some cash. New cheapo phone from the supermarket. The bunch of keys from the bottom of the wardrobe. A nice little bag or two of Special K. That was the lot, wasn't it?

He watched Sherlock shift on the bed.

"Need a hand?"

o0o0o0o

Lestrade and Watson strode up the hospital stairs together.

"Don't know how much sense you'll get out of him," Watson explained. "He's drugged up, so he's pretty much babbling. "

Lestrade took his mobile phone out of his pocket and started flicking keys.

"Oh! They won't let you use that in here, you know."

"I'm not going to use the phone. I just want to take a video…" he gave John ablokeish smile. Sherlock lying prone in bed, like any other mere mortal, was definitely

worth a quick recording. Now it was official he is on the mend.

John Watson laughed and swung open the door of the side ward. But the lights were off. The bed empty, covers tossed back anyhow. Not the way a nurse would leave

them…..the doctor looked round wildly.

No Sherlock!

The blinds at the window were swinging sideways in the cool evening air. And the

window was open. They assumed he had left that way. They assumed he was well enough to climb through windows and scale rooftops.

"Oh, Jesus!" breathed Watson and gave Lestrade a wild stare.

As one they turned and raced down the stairs and out of the hospital in the hope he

had not got far and they would spot him…...

o0o0o

As they ran from the room, called hospital security, demanded to see if there was CCTV that revealed when he left - and how - Sherlock Holmes was back in the last place they would ever look for him - 221B, Baker Street.

He had timed his escape carefully - to return while Mrs Hudson visited her neighbour Mrs Turner next door to share tea and a weekly chat in the cosy rear sitting room. So they would not see, nor hear, nor suspect, anything at all.

He looked for things. Had Bill Wiggins moving furniture.

The plot thickened. He had a plan. It would not end well. But it would end.

TO BE CONTINUED…..

 **Author's Notes:**

All credit for this chapter goes again to the kind, knowledgeable and very helpful **Kate221B** for advice, medical input and beta skills. Thank you, Kate - I could not have done this bit without you. Now read her own stories! Immaculate and inspiring.


	24. Chapter 24

Things We Lost In The Flames

Some events from the TV episode. But there is more….

Chapter 24: 'We sat apart….'

"John?"

The voice at the other end of his mobile was an octave lower than normal - which was always worrying - determined, but also perhaps a little hesitant. John Watson had no patience and too much fear in his heart for such subtlety of thought or consideration of semantics.

He had been hunting down Sherlock Holmes. Had returned to 221B Baker Street in the vain hope that his friend would have gone home and gone to ground. Which would have been far too simple a solution, on reflection.

The real reason, accompanied by Lestrade, had been to look for clues. Clues to lead him to Sherlock. But the clues he was looking at now were not for the mystery he had been addressing. They were for something completely other. And he did not like what he was seeing.

Despite himself, he and Lestrade had come to one simple conclusion above all others: that Sherlock must have recognised - if not actively known - who shot him: an almost point blank shot when facing the shooter left the possibility of no other conclusion.

And the unspoken fear between them had been twofold: that Sherlock had absconded from hospital to hunt that person down himself: and that he was in no state of health to do so.

So what had caused the escape and the disappearance? And what was so urgent?

"What are you up to, Sherlock?"

John Watson could hear his own voice; more emotional than he wanted to sound. Tired, bullish, reluctant. And with a shaft of fear in his heart.

"Up to nothing, John. Just trying to….resolve a problem."

"So that's why you ran away from hospital? Do you realise how stupid….? How doing that could kill you?"

"That's not important. This is."

"What is?"

"There will be taxi at the door in five minutes. Get in it. It knows where to drop you."

"Don't ignore…..!"

Too late. He realised he was talking into empty ether.

For that moment in the eye of the storm, when anger and fear overtook him and rendered him both immobile and speechless, John Watson sat back in his old chair, now returned to it's former position by the fireplace, curled his hands tight into the arms and glared at the bottle of _Claire-de-la-lune_ perfume on the occasional table at his side.

Tried hard to calm himself and not read or understand the message - the clues - Sherlock Holmes had left him. And wanted, more than anything, not to have to make the decision as to whether to trust his friend or not.

"John? Are you alright, John? What did Sherlock have to say? John?"

Mrs Hudson was standing beside him, holding Sherlock's kettle in one hand ready to make tea, asking gently, worried now by eyes looking inwards and by silence. She had passed him the ringing telephone, being helpful as always, not realising that he dared not answer it for himself.

"It's Sherlock, John. Sherlock."

A call he had wanted desperately - and yet not wanted. Yes, of course it was Sherlock! That was exactly what he had feared. So he had taken the phone from his former landlady with reluctance and a terrible sense of foreboding.

And now he had to process the conversation he had just had.

"Erm - yes -sorry - no." John Watson roused himself. "Nothing, Mrs Hudson. He said nothing."

"So why did he ring you?"

"To say he's too scared to tell me anything."

His face twisted in something between anger and sadness, and finally saw his former landlady's very real concern. Dredged up an apologetic smile and resignation.

"Got to go, Mrs Hudson. Things to do. Don't worry."

He gave her a pat on the arm that was meant to reassure and was gone. Down the stairs and into the back of the black cab waiting at the door, just as Sherlock had instructed.

"You Dr Watson?" asked the driver.

"Yes," he snapped.

"Off we go then," said the driver imperturbably, and they drew away from the kerb.

For the entire journey, John Watson was unable to engage his brain, could only sit motionless, look out of the window at the passing buildings, and pray his thoughts were off kilter.

Pray that Sherlock Holmes was wrong. That he had been dropped accidentally into the middle of Sherlock Holmes' personal, drug addled nightmare and he would wake up soon. But face facts. How often was Sherlock Holmes ever wrong?

Tried not to think,,,,but could not help but remember…..how the first word his friend had tried to say when life returned to him was 'Mary.' That the perfume that linked his wife with the aroma Sherlock had caught as an ethereal presence in Magnussen's office had been _Claire de la lune._

" _Claire de la lune," S_ herlock had identified, hands spinning as he sorted mind palace memories and categorisations. "Where do I know it?"

"Mary," Watson had replied automatically, occupied tending to Janine. "Mary wears it."

"No, not Mary. Someone else."

Watson was still hanging onto that decisive 'someone else."

The taxi sped north west into that hinterland between Paddington and Bayswater, into a pleasant leafy early Victorian street. Just a few doors along the elegant terraced white stucco façade of Leinster Gardens, Bill Wiggins was sitting quietly on a wall. In an old duffel coat, waiting. Waiting specifically for him.

"'Allo, Dr Watson. Sherlock's through there." He indicated the particular front door with his head. "Go straight on in."

John Watson replied with a sharp nod.

Time was now. And he was not looking forward to the revelations the next few minutes would bring. Damn Sherlock Holmes for coming back from the dead, back into his life and being as relentless and remorseless as ever. Even - especially - when the case came so close to home. Damn him for his remorseless drive for truth and justice.

He had a sudden feeling that if he tried to talk he would vomit.

The door opened soundlessly to his touch. But instead of being in the hallway of an elegant Victorian home, he was surprised to find he was in what looked like a factory corridor; a long narrow space stretching either side of him. A workshop, almost; blank walls without windows, industrial lighting. Power box, work station bench with a variety of tools, mini fridge, small door off to the left he took to be a lavatory.

At the corridor end to the left - a blank wall. And in front of it a wheelchair, with drip stand, saline bag hanging. And hunched in the wheelchair - Sherlock Holmes, in his charcoal suit and Belstaff coat, sitting and looking at him with dark feverish eyes and a grim fixed expression. No words.

John Watson took four steps towards his friend.

"Not talking, then? Being an arse or just not capable?"

"John, I….."

"Do you have any idea how stupid you were to break out of hospital like that? That you might die?"

"John….."

"What's so important you risk your life like this? And what the fuck am I doing here?"

"The reveal."

"Of what? No! NO, don't tell me!" he put his hands to his head, his palms over his ears, then his eyes. Torn between anger and distress. "I don't want to know."

"Sorry, John. You've got to. Wheels are turning, and you must not be crushed beneath them. And I can't…hold them back….any more. You have to know. I'm sorry."

"What have I got to know? And why can't you just tell me?"

"Because I…..because you have to know….what happened was not my fault. Not my mad theory. Hear it from someone else. So you believe." He sighed, and even to John Watson looked infinitely sad. Which worried the doctor even more.

" Because you could never believe me. I tried to protect you - all three of you - but you have to hear the truth from the person behind the problem. Who should be here within minutes. Who wanted to find me as much as you. But not for the same reason."

"No, Sherlock. I want no part of this."

"You don't have the luxury of choice. For better, for worse, John. I'm sorry."

"For Christ's sake, stop apologising!"

"Hmn….."

Watson took another five steps forward without even realising it. As he did so Sherlock Holmes levered himself slowly out of the wheelchair. Bent, laborious, in pain.

"Christ, Sherlock!"

John Watson caught him by the elbows as he groaned, wobbled, pitched forward.

For a moment they were balanced against each other, very close. Watson could smell the antiseptic hospital smell, the cold drying sweat on his friend's skin. Saw the greyness, the exhaustion, the fevered eyes, heard the wheezing breath.

"You look like death warmed up. You should be back in hospital."

"Later. This first. " Sherlock pushed himself upright.

"Need you to be me. Flip your collar, muzz up your hair, Sit in the wheelchair. Under the right lighting….no lighting….you'll pass as me. Just for a moment. Should be long enough. Can you do that?"

"Yes. But I don't…."

"Understand? You don't need to. Just sit, just listen. Witness. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes, but I don't…."

"Just do it, John. Please," there was a thread of something that in anyone else might have been described as panic on the edge of the voice, and John Watson tried to discipline his own rising fear. "I can't do this bit on my own. I'm sorry. "

"Are you dying? What have you taken?" Sharply. Trying to cut through the dogged determination before him.

"Please just sit."

So he sat. Snapped up his coat collar, ruffled his hair to create a silhouette in imitation of Sherlock's tousled curls.

Watched Sherlock labour with agonising unbalanced slowness along the corridor. Flip off lights to leave him sitting in shadow. Watched him take a phone out of his pocket and attach the earpiece.

"Now we wait. I will be just along here. Mustn't be seen. When our visitor arrives I will talk - into the phone. You sit tight. Not a word. Hear what you would not believe from me. Can do?"

"Yes, but….?"

"Later, John. It will all make sense. Later."

Sherlock Holmes retreated through the right hand doorway. And so they waited. In silence.

o0o0o0o

"You won't be working for a while, Sherl…."

Janine's words had haunted him. But they were not the words that had driven him into urgent action; to break out of hospital.

After Janine left he upped the morphine dose and slept for a while. The creak of the side ward door opening sharpened his senses but he kept his eyes closed. Four steps as the visitor came to his side. And waited; looking but not speaking.

"Nothing to say to me, Mary?"

His eyes flashed open. And there she was.

"Depends if you are speaking to me, Sherlock."

She was defensive. Determined. Mastering fear. Of him? In his condition? He almost laughed at such a ludicrous thought.

"Why not? I know why you shot me. I would have probably done the same thing."

"Too clever, as always."

Her twisted smile was half loathing, half affection, recognition of someone who was both ally and adversary.

But she kept her hands rammed down into her coat pockets and did not offer to touch him.

"Of course. Like you, Mary."

He rolled his head towards her on the pillow and smiled. She withdrew half a step.

"So what are you doing here? Except to test the ground. See if I can face you without killing you? See if I intend to have my revenge and betray you to John?"

"Very good." She nodded. "So?"

"I told you to trust me. I told you to leave it to me."

"That's not an answer."

"I have no intention of killing you, Mary. Or telling John. This has not changed my respect for you."

"You are not a saint, Sherlock."

"And neither are you."

They looked almost peaceably into each others eyes. Mutual recognition. Mutual respect.

"I don't understand why you are being so understanding."

"Yes you do," he said quietly. "We are both doing our best to protect your husband."

She looked away, shaking her head.

"You went to Magnussen's penthouse to kill him. You realised he knew who you were - had realised since that telegram at the wedding. And he was getting too close to your life and John: getting too close to me.

"You had resolved to shoot him dead anyway, at some point. Because he had you in his sights, planned to extort you to do his bidding, and it was only a matter of time. Because he would turn his attention to you next; because John must not know your past.

"You had never quite trusted me, how much I knew or had deducted. So instead of asking what John and I were going to be doing that night, all you could think was we would both be out of your hair. Leaving you with your chance to kill Magnussen.

"If you had trusted me - if you had let me tell you where we were going - you would have avoided the mess that ensued."

She nodded, but did not comment. So he pressed on.

"You did not do your homework, Mary. Did not consider he might still be working, with staff - Janine and a security man - in attendance. But by then you were in, committed. You neutralised them and went for your target. But just when you had him where you wanted for a swift and silent execution - John and I turned up.

"You had to think fast. You had to act before John followed me up the stairs and saw you; otherwise he would then, at the very least, know who and what you were. And nothing would ever be the same again. So then you would have to shoot him too - before you lost his love and loyalty - to keep him quiet.

"You elected to shoot me instead. The least of the evils. If you shot Magnussen regardless, you would have to shoot both of us too, John and I. If you didn't shoot both of us, we would be implicated and blamed

"You had no idea if Janine and the security man had woken and seen us, if we had left evidence or DNA behind us. You could not risk having us hunted down as the possible killers of such a high profile target - because circumstantial evidence would be enough to convict us. Or might - without extensive investigation that could well dig up your real identity and background. Not a good option.

"You could not shoot just Magnussen and me; there was no way you could frame a classic pistols for two and coffee for one situation with only one gun; and you could not be sure if John had brought his army revolver with him.

"But shoot me….I would be silenced. If not killed. That would give you time to make your escape. Muddy the waters. Complicate matters. Make someone think I was the target all along, as I was there being the unconventional famous detective. By appointment? For another purpose? Or committing burglary?

"You were not to know my ruse to get inside was by proposing to Janine. So it would look like Magnussen just got in the way, poor chap. You gambled - quite rightly - that Magnussen would keep his mouth shut."

"So you shot me in a split second decision to protect John. To impress Magnussen with your ruthlessness. To kill or distract me. Except that when you shot me so it looked like a professional kill shot to Magnussen, you actually gave me a chance to live.

You did not do the professional three-shot you should have. And you knew that having decalibrated the bullet, I had a good chance of survival.

"But if I didn't live, it didn't matter. I would still be out of your hair. Magnussen might be warned off pursuing you. And John would not be suffering divided loyalties any longer. You could just pick up his pieces again - like you did before. And confident knowing I would not reappear out of thin air this time." He sighed.

Her thoughtful and unreadable expression did not falter.

"How am I doing?" he asked.

"Pretty good. The question is - what are you going to do now?"

"Get out of hospital."

"That's it? No treats, no ominous promises? No retribution?"

"I don't have to live with you. Or with your guilt. I don't have to look inside my head to see me falling and dying. That's your burden."

"You know very well what I am asking, Sherlock."

"And I am telling you. We go on. As if this little adventure never happened. We unite to protect John from both of us and from Magnussen."

Finally she smiled a little. Stepped forward and briefly put a hand on his arm.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me. I can't make promises, Mary. We don't know what Magnussen will do next and I fear you have unwittingly exposed your flank - and he will attack you before I am well enough to intervene."

He closed his eyes under the assault of a wave of pain. And when he opened them again she had gone.

Left with his thoughts, he found them poor company.

o0o0o0o

A light touch was tracing spirals on the back of his left hand.

"Are you awake, Sherlock? Feeling better? You look better than when I visited you last."

He opened his eyes reluctantly to look into the face of Charles Augustus Magnussen.

"Hello, Charles. Here to gloat?"

"Not at all. Your recovery is very much in my interest, as you are aware."

"Think I might need a while before I pay my forfeit."

"Of course. I would not presume to hurry you. And the anticipation has it's own pleasure. Your restored health is in my interest."

"Thank you."

"You are - as they say - most welcome."

He smiled with rare warmth and patted the slim hand under his own.

"I have told no-one what occurred in my penthouse last week. Not even Janine. Your girlfriend, I hear. Your fiancee even. Really, Mr Holmes. Did she never realise her romance was just a cruel ruse by you to get close to me?"

"No, I…"

"I have told her, of course. That she was duped, that she meant nothing to you. That she was a pawn in your heartless little game. She was very angry. Very emotional."

"I know."

"Ah! You have seen her rather lucrative kiss-and-tell stories in the popular press, then? It amuses me she did not bring her story to me." He leaned in and Sherlock could not recoil. "But I have sacked her, of course. Such disloyalty. Dear me, yes."

"Kind of you," Sherlock demurred.

"A swift execution brings the least pain, I find." That tiger smile. Another pat of the hand. A curl of damp fingers around Sherlock's own.

"I do not plan a swift execution for the woman we know as Mary Watson, however."

The voice hardened, the grip on his hand tightened. Sherlock resisted the temptation to pull his hand away, form a fist and try to reach a blow.

"She was very stupid, was she not? To put herself at my mercy like that? I am sure she feels I should be grateful that she did not shoot me as she intended, but shot you instead.

"But that action was panic and weakness. Not mercy. And - really, Sherlock - who makes allowances for such a pathetic change of heart? Such weakness does not mean I will spare her. Not when she gives me such strong ammunition against her.

"By shooting you in front of me, I can now blackmail her to do anything I want - anything at all - to stop me revealing what happened, and who she really is. To her foolish and stupid husband. Or perhaps the police? The prospect is delightful. Do you not think?"

The thrust of such a revelation, the surprise of such a visitor, the length of time since he had self administered pain control, made Sherlock groan and thrash briefly in a wave of agony that took his breath and made him close his eyes.

Magnussen gripped his hand more firmly as if in comfort, and murmured: "There, there," as if in sympathy.

The break in conversation allowed the patient a moment to gather his instincts. Draw a deep breath.

"Too late," he rasped through the arc of pain. "He knows."

Magnussen's hand withdrew. And so did the pretence of jovial warmth and concern.

"You're lying."

"No."

"You're lying. There is no way a man of idiot principle like John Watson would stay with a woman like Mary Morstan after she had shot and almost killed his best friend."

"Of course he would. If I told him too. And I did."

Sherlock Holmes lifted his head and gathered all his mental powers to reach across to Magnussen and make him believe.

"I don't believe you."

"Why would I lie? I owe Mary Morstan nothing. She destroyed my relationship with my flatmate, colleague and best friend. I would prefer him back with me than with her. But right now he wants to be ordinary, boring, conventional. Have a woman to bed and a baby. I don't understand it, or his attraction to her. But that was his choice. So I have supported it. And will - while it lasts."

He pulled a breath, let all his physical pain show in his eyes, allowed it to be misinterpreted as weakness. The honest confession of the pained and the enfeebled.

"I still support it. I gave John Watson life when he was at his lowest ebb. He owes me, and what's more important, he remains in thrall to me. And I satisfy him in bed. More than she does, it appears."

He saw the flash of reaction, of jealousy, in Magussen. And because he knew that statement had hit Magnussen's most base instincts, he knew Magnussen believed him. Despite himself.

"No."

"Yes. Of course, yes! I play the long game, Charles. I know he will become bored with her, with the drudge of parenthood when it comes. Eventually he will reject her, and then he will return to me. He really has no choice.

"But he has to do that for himself. Come back to me. I cannot influence him. Just hold on tight as his lifeline so he will return to me. He will tire of her. But he cannot resist me."

"So I must hold to you before he returns? Is that it?"

"How do I answer that? At the moment I am in great pain. Have no idea how long my recovery will take, or how complete it will be. That is my focus at the moment - getting well and becoming myself again. Not worry about the domestic crises of the Watsons. Especially when I already know what that final result will be."

"Your confidence is remarkable."

"Of course. I know my little soldier. What I do need to know is what you will do next. About the Watsons."

" I have tasks for Mrs Watson. But I need… am not sure….I believe you. I need to test….." He stammered, taken aback, stared down into the eyes of Sherlock Holmes, seeking the truth, denying the knowledge. "My plans to use her. I do not want those plans thwarted."

Sherlock Holmes did his sympathetic face.

"Obviously there is no love lost between my friend's wife and myself. If I had know you had a plan that will ultimately remove her for me I would never have told John what happened. No point.

"But he asked immediately - as soon as I awoke from surgery, as soon as I could speak. So I told him. I was not fully myself. As you may appreciate."

Magnussen sat back in the visitor's chair and looked at him for long moments. Sherlock looked back, did not attempt to break the silence.

"You still owe me. Your forfeit."

"I am aware."

"Do you intend to honour your….. obligation?"

"Of course. In fact I look forward to it. You - we - must be patient. Until I am well."

Finally Sherlock Holmes smiled. Made the effort to brush his fingertips against Magnussen's. Watched the man look down at his hand as if distracted, furiously thinking.

He rose suddenly.

"I must go. Get well soon."

He lifted Sherlock's hand, brushed the cool fingertips to his lips. Left the room without looking back.

Sherlock Holmes was still for long moments, fighting the pain and trembling of reaction. From thinking on his feet. Playing poker. Playing the long game.

But now he had to act before Magnussen did. Make the lie the truth. And right now. Make the truth the tool, the lie the protection.

He reached a hand with difficulty into the drawer of the locker by his side. Withdrew a phone. Gathered his strength and dialled a number.

"It's me. Can you get here soonest? I have a list of things I need you to bring….."

o0o0o0o

And now here they were. Bill Wiggins had sneaked into 221B, brought clothes, a burn phone, money, keys and ketamine. He had entered the hospital as a normal visitor - but, disguised as a porter, had taken Sherlock from the building in a wheelchair. No-one even noticed them go.

He had entered the room with a full plastic carrier bag. Handed over the grainy white powder. Waited while Sherlock snorted the ketamine, and in the fifteen minutes before it took effect, crept away and raided staff lockers for a porter's uniform and spirited a wheelchair from a nurse's station.

It was all too easy. The ketamine was a disassociative anaesthetic when it wasn't being a date rape drug. So Sherlock could take it and be removed beautifully from himself. Feel as if someone else was carrying the pain and the damage while he walked alongside it. Got him to his feet and dressed, to move. He could still feel, but the feelings were distant, as if they belonged to someone else. With courage and bloody mindedness he was able to function, somehow - and with Bill's help.

Back to 221B in a taxi. Leave clues for John Watson to find that would lead him to draw his own, correct, conclusions; get Bill to manhandle the old chair from his bedroom to it's usual place by the hearth, bring out the perfume bottle Lady Smallwood had forgotten and left behind right at the very beginning of things.

On to 23 and 24 Leinster Gardens. More ketamine. Set up the phone to hand to Mary. Set up the image projection to be a clue for police - if everything went wrong, if Mary killed him. If the backup plan that would be revenge and confession both, failed.

Then Bill was posted outside to await the arrival of John Watson.

And, finally, finally make the telephone call that would summon his assistant to his side. Just as it used to.

But now Bill Wiggins had just opened the line on the burn phone. Which meant Mary Morstan - knowing he had disappeared - was coming to find him. To find him before her husband found him. And to silence him. Of that he had no doubt whatsoever.

He took a deep breath and hoped the effect of the ketamine would last.

"Two minutes, John," he said.

And they waited.

o0o0o0o

Into the deep and pregnant silence John Watson heard Sherlock suddenly talking on the telephone; a murmur of words through the door, nothing distinct, nothing helpful. But the tone was calm, clear, instructive.

When the outside door opened, he now knew what to expect, despite himself. He had worked it out, would have been an idiot not to, despite what Sherlock had refused to tell him.

Mary.

He was not shocked any more, just upset. Betrayed, somehow. Because somewhere in his heart - despite everything - to realise that if Mary was betraying Sherlock Holmes she was also betraying him: her husband. Sad, certainly. Angry, yes. Horror stricken.

She came into the corridor house with a telephone in her hand. Soft footed and wary. No preamble. Straight to business.

He saw her look round, get her bearings. Peer at him, trying to see more in the darkness that his silhouette. A silhouette that looked Sherlock shaped. He tensed his hands, sat tight, forcing himself to stillness and silence.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" She spoke in his direction. Listening through the earpiece, concentrating, she had no idea where the voice was coming from, or that it was actually behind her. She was staring at him, trying to see in the dark, assuming her husband was her husband's friend.

John Watson could suddenly hear the calm, remorseless voice of Sherlock Holmes, too. Telling his wife what he had not been able to tell his best friend. And John listened and learnt.

"Mary Morstan was still born in October 1972. Her gravestone is in Chiswick Cemetery where - five years ago - you acquired her name and date of birth and, thereafter, her identity," intoned that sepulchral voice.. "That's why you don't have friends from before that date.

"It's an old enough technique, know to the kinds of people who can recognise a skip-code on sight, have extraordinarily retentive memories,

"You were very slow," She acknowledged calmly. Almost chiding. She heard him, and did not deny a word of what he told her, told them both. Her voice was detached, objective, judgmental. A voice he did not recognise. It was then a part of John Watson died inside.

"How good a shot are you?" Sherlock Holmes asked suddenly.

Mary Watson pulled a gun out of her handbag in reply. A Walther PPK; And a Walther bullet had been taken from the body of Sherlock Holmes. John Watson knew guns, and recognised the incontrovertible truth of what he had only so far feared.

His blood turned to ice and he thought he actually stopped breathing as he watched his wife, his love, cock the hammer of the pistol, hold it ready - ready to shoot Sherlock Holmes again - but still at rest down at her left side.

"How badly do you want to find out?" The same detached voice.

"If I die here my body will be found in a building with your face projected on the front of it. Even Scotland Yard could get somewhere with that." Sherlock Holmes's voice was unworried, matched hers for professional objectivity. Only John Watson was burning alive.

She nodded in acceptance of his words, and grimaced. Looked towards the figure in the shadows again; peering, trying to see clearly, read the face in front of her.

"I want to know how good you are," Sherlock's voice continued remorselessly. Then, coaxing, gentler now: "Go on , show me. The doctor's wife must be a little bored by now."

She nodded, accepted the professional challenge. Looked away to take a 50p piece from her bag. Flicked it upwards off her thumb. .Followed the trajectory of the coin upwards with her eyes, raised her arm and shot. Swift, deliberate, decisive.

Turned her head away as the coin fell and the shell ejected from the pistol.

The 50p landed with a metallic clang in the silence of the confined space and spun on the floor.

Suddenly aware of a shadow that moved behind her, Mary Watson froze; recognised Sherlock's tall, lean and unmistakeable silhouette. She turned slowly to see he was holding a phone he then switched off. To reveal he had been talking on the telephone while standing behind her all the time, to give a false sense of where the voice was coming from.

She cast a glance behind her to the darkened far end of the corridor with a mere shift of her eyes, a tiny shrug admitting his victory.

"It's a dummy," she assessed quietly of the shape down in the darkness, taking out her own earpiece, voice determined in it's level tone.." "I suppose it was a fairly obvious trick."

"May I see?"

Sherlock Holmes stepped slowly into a pool of light. To John Watson he looked horribly ill.

Too erect, as if he dare not bend or move his torso. Hair damp with sweat, a film of sweat on his face; the half-house they occupied was not heated - so Sherlock Holmes was sweating with pain. His face grey, skin tightly drawn over his bones, and his eyes shadowed. Watson registered that whatever he had taken to get him through this was now wearing off.

But he was still concentrating on Mary, still listening, processing.

She did not pick up the coin and hand it to him with politeness, but kicked it along the ground towards him. An act of disdain, defiance, or perhaps as a small cruelty, knowing how ill he looked, how it would pain him to gather up the telltale coin?

He bent down with agonising stuttering slowness, grunted in pain, reached forward to pick up the coin. He disguised the way he had to suddenly support his torso with his arms as he reached down, masked the tremor that went through him to his very core.

 _Something internal…moved…..shifted…released…blood? Something not good. Something scaring. But far too much to do now to register potential malfunction of the transport._

Took up the coin with fumbling fingers. Held it up to show the hole through the middle.

"And yet," he began, voice flat and pushed out with effort. "From a distance of six feet you failed to make a kill shot. Enough to hospitalise me. Not enough to kill me." He sucked in breath for a moment and almost staggered. But now his voice was stronger.

"That wasn't a miss. It was surgery." He paused, looked at her with a level and unreadable stare. Something within him had relaxed. For now he truly knew that she had not been trying to kill him - her marksmanship was too good for that. "I'll take the case."

"What case?" she asked, puzzled.

"Yours." He almost smiled. Not angry, as she had anticipated. Almost admiring. There was nothing predictable about Sherlock Holmes, she thought; just as John had always told her.

"Why didn't you come to me in the first place?" he asked; an essential, inevitable interrogation softened by sadness and understanding.

"Because John can't ever know that I lied to him," she said softly, firmly, with purpose and fire in her voice. "It would break him and I would lose him forever. And, Sherlock, I will never let that happen."

He made no response to such clearly declared sentiment, just turned as if to walk away and she stopped him.

"Please understand. There is nothing in the world I would not do to stop that happening."

"Sorry."

He turned to the power box, flipped one of the switches. The lights flickered as they came on along the corridor, taking light towards the figure in the far corner.

"Not that obvious a trick," he remarked. Almost offhanded.

There was the sound of slight movement behind her. Movement that could not be Sherlock; nor a dummy. In that second Mary Watson understood Sherlock's trick that was far from the obvious one she had assumed. Her face told it all, and her shoulders lowered as if in defeat, her head fell for a moment..

Reluctantly she slowly turned to see her fate. And there, sitting quietly in the wheelchair, was her husband. Whose very stillness and total lack of expression was more chilling than anything she could possibly have imagined.

Eyes fixed upon her, he stood, rearranged and subdued his hair, straightened his jacket and snapped the collar down, all neat again. Never speaking, still gazing at her, impassive. But with hot eyes that burned into hers with anger and disappointment and betrayal.

He walked steadily up the corridor towards her, as his wife and his best friend watched him silently. Sherlock Holmes watched the Watsons look at each other but not say a word.

He sighed. Spoke.

"Now talk. Sort it out and do it quickly. Baker Street. Now."

He whirled and went to the door, missing the look that passed between John and Mary Watson. Husband passed wife, close up, and through touching distance in that narrow corridor. But he did not touch her; and she dared not touch him. She dropped her eyes and drew in a long agonised breath that only narrowly avoided being a sob.

Before she could even think of what to say - anything to say - they were ushered out of the building, down the front path and into the taxi that had been waiting for them all the time.

Sherlock Holmes locked the door of 23, Leinster Gardens behind him and pocketed the key. Concentrated on walking a straight line to the taxi behind his friends.

Took refuge in one corner of the back seat.

No-one spoke. John and Mary Watson did not even look at each other.

And Sherlock Holmes, his body a burning searing circle of agony as the ketamine wore off, gritted his teeth and readied his phone to make a call as soon as the three of them left the taxi and entered 221B Baker Street.

When the evening would take a new turn and matters would become serious. He closed his eyes. Rode another wave of pain. And waited.

TO BE CONTINUED...

TO BE CONTINUED….


	25. Chapter 25

Things We Lost In The Flames

I make no apology for revisiting this scene in it's entirety - it is simply one of the most complex, revalatory and stunning scenes of the entire _Sherlock_ canon. And the acting ain't bad either!

Chapter 25: 'A list of all the things….'

John Watson opened the door of the taxi and was out through it and onto the pavement, crossing it at speed like a greyhound from the traps. The anger in him - hunched shoulders, white fists, clenched jaw - was only too visible despite his silence.

Mary Watson followed him; frightened to even glance back at Sherlock Holmes; distracted, haunted eyes fixed on her husband's disappearing back.

Sherlock Holmes, last to leave the taxi, hauled himself heavily to his feet by the hanging strap and heard himself groan.

"You OK, Sherlock?" asked the cabbie, glancing back with carefully veiled concern.

"Hmn. Thank you, Davy." Somehow he stepped out of the vehicle in one piece and swayed down onto the pavement. "Put this on my account and add an extra twenty for your time."

"Ta, mate."

He watched the consulting detective weave across the short yet endless space between the kerb and the front door, and only when Sherlock had moved safely inside, drove away.

Checking Mrs Hudson was not hovering nearby to overhear him, he hung onto the banisters to make a short, important telephone call, and then proceeded to drag himself up the stairs hand over hand, with a pause on the half landing to get his breath.

Breathing was getting harder and pain was taking over again as the last snort of ketamine wore off. And he did not have any more at hand to save his life. However dearly he needed and craved it.

Fortunately, none of the three of them had wanted to talk in the cab, so he was able to concentrate on nothing except holding himself together and preparing for the hard and inevitable interview to come.

John Watson had needed to know the truth about his wife, and quickly, so Sherlock Holmes had not had the time for niceties, for subtle preparation. He had had to break out of hospital and just do what was needed.

Magnussen could act against Mary at any time, now he had such an immense lever against her. Which meant Magnussen would act against John Watson too. The thought goaded Sherlock on beyond sense, beyond sanity, beyond his own sense of self. He had already wasted a week without being able to warn Mary, to inform John Watson. What evil might Magnussen have been planning in this time?

And this, with his irrepressible egocentric labyrinthine mind, meant Magnussen could and would act against John Watson too. Would he turn on the husband first, to intensify the pressure upon the wife? Or go straight to the attack on Mary? Which job could he need her special talents for? And who might he want her to kill?

Lady Smallwood? To delay or stop completely the Parliamentary Select Committee process of investigation upon him? Lord Smallwood again? Out of resentment of the original plot frustrated? To turn the screws on the husband in revenge? To make a void in government, to put pressure on Mycroft? Or all of these? Out of revenge for the blackmail plot being foiled?

Any of the Sondersons? To prove the long reach of his power? To retaliate? To break up the family for the sheer mischief and pleasure of the act? To take down part of the heart of European security? To blacken Danish authority and influence?

To kill Piet Bruhl? For the power play of seeing a brave and irreproachable man obliterated personally and professionally?

To kill Mycroft? To throw the government in disarray? To spite his younger brother simply for breathing? And remove his influence and protection? Or for daring to counteract for delaying his seduction? And turning the screws on the inevitability and humiliation of that act?

Or even perhaps - the most twisted game of all - to get the assassin wife to kill her ex-soldier husband to put sideways pressure on both Holmes brothers and destroy them all and together. So they would all and both die from their heart outwards; like the weeping willow tree. And have to endure watching each other do so.

Having been shot and put safely out of the way in hospital, his removal from the fray might be just the advantage the Dane would relish. When the absence of the fly in the ointment, the spoke in the wheel, might well allow Magnussen plenty of room to make all the manoeuvres he so wanted.

So Sherlock had no choice but to move fast; to act, even from his hospital bed - for time was now of the essence. And it was the very lack of time to recover, the amount of time he would need to recover, that had made him move.

Move when he could barely stand. Act when he could barely think. Take risks to achieve knowledge and wisdom and safety. Yet not for himself.

So now he cursed and hauled and shuddered his way up to 221B, to reach up and into and burst through the surface of his actions. Of his very life.

Finally he achieved the top of the stairs, exhausted by the effort, and, heavy of heart yet light headed and short of breath, he braced one foot between the door jamb and the floor, one arm against the wall, to prop himself upright against the architecture. The only support of any sort he could count on.

John Watson, first into the room, had dropped his coat onto the dining table, and the speed and force of his entrance as he slammed the door back into the wall had startled Mrs Hudson and brought her flying out from the kitchen.

To then hover to an indecisive stop in the middle of the sitting room, as if suspended in the discordant air.

" John? Mary?"

Hesitant questions, to which she received no reply; John Watson seething and unseeing in the centre of the room, his wife tucked into a corner, as if wanting to absent herself from whatever was about to happen.

Martha Hudson searched their eyes, saw nothing reassuring in the face of either. Looked towards the doorway, for the entrance of the person still missing from the group. And saw Sherlock had planted himself at the entrance of his own home as if he dared not enter.

Sherlock, standing, tense and drawn, eyes hooded, sweat on his face. Shaking gently, braced against the architrave of the doorway. Oddly erect and immobile.

"Oh, Sherlock!" She put her hands to her face, unable to stop the cry of fear and sympathy that came out of her mouth at the sight of him. "Oh, good gracious! You look terrible."

She would have gone to him, but something about him repelled her as he turned his eyes towards her; blank of expression yet with wild eyes - like a madman.

She had been fluttering there - waiting in the flat for him - all of the evening past, then, something at the back of his brain registered.

For he remembered. Remembered how she had rushed up the stairs from her own flat earlier, as soon as she had heard him enter the house with Bill Wiggins - rushing to see how he was, what he was doing.

She had run into the flat only just behind them, not seeing how Wiggins had almost carried the consulting detective from the taxi to the house, and with an effort, up the stairs, dropping him onto the nearest dining chair by the desk.

And as he sat there, one arm flung behind him across the back of the chair, holding himself upright to ease the pain of movement, he looked very much like himself: imperious, withdrawn, silent.

"Sherlock! What are you doing home? How can you be well enough….?" A horror of some sort of realisation, a pause. "Where's Mycroft? John?"

For to Mrs Hudson Bill Wiggins was a stranger. And with his gaunt unshaven face, his shadowed eyes, his hunched physicality, Martha Hudson recognised a drug addict when she saw one. And although she knew many of Sherlock's homeless network, this one was different. Brighter, sharper, deeper in the pit and walking to the beat of a different drum. He was dangerous. Yet also happy to be Sherlock's ally.

"Who are you? What do you want with Sherlock?"

She was a frail elderly woman. But she was still Sherlock Holmes's protector.

"It's OK, Mrs Hudson." He lifted a hand to her as if in appeal, and tried to ignore how much even that careful action hurt. "This is Billy. Billy, this is my landlady, Mrs Hudson…"

"Hello, Mrs H."

Bill Wiggins waved a friendly paw in her direction, and Martha Hudson glared at him.

"Billy is with me, Mrs Hudson. He's fine. In small doses, anyway. And today he's helping me."

"You're not fit to be out of hospital…."

"I am fine, Mrs Hudson. Things to do."

He wavered on his chair, and smiled at her in what he clearly thought was a reassuring manner. She glared at him suspiciously.

"Who let you out of hospital? Who knows you are back home?"

He patted her hand but did not answer her. And the hand that touched hers was far too warm. She was not reassured.

Things to do, Hudders. Can you give us….ten minutes? And then a cuppa would be marvellous."

He beamed vaguely at her. And she squeezed his hand and returned downstairs.

Which gave enough time for Billy to haul John Watson's chair from it's new position by Sherlock's bed and back to it's old place by the fire. To retrieve Lady Smallwood's _Claire de la Lune_ bottle from the bureau. To position the occasional table and set the perfume bottle on it. As instructed by the man who could not manage those actions for himself.

To create a tableau for John Watson to see. To present all the clues and hope the doctor would start to take a new view of the world, find a new way through the woods, work his way towards his own answers to questions he did not even know he was asking.

And for Sherlock to snort another line of ketamine.

All before Mrs Hudson reappeared with a tea tray. So all three of them could drink in some travesty of a polite tea party before the two men were on the move again.

"Sherlock….?"

His name was on her lips as she watched him stand with slow deliberation. He looked down at her with such anguish and sadness in his eyes she felt a terrible lurch in her heart.

"What?" he was distracted, yet seemed almost lazily patient, still speaking softly to her.

"Just come home safely. Will you do that? From wherever it is you are going?"

He trailed a finger across her cheek, and she resisted a strong temptation to put her arms around him, to stop him going off to do whatever awfulness he intended, and to hold him close.

"Of course. Not going far. When I return you can make another lovely cuppa," he said with an airy sort of deliberation.

And then they were gone.

But now Sherlock was back. Looking worse than before. With John and Mary this time. And in between times Martha Hudson had been unable to leave the flat, as if somehow her presence would act as a totem, and draw him safely home.

She was about to go to him when he spoke.

"Get me some morphine from your kitchen," he demanded. "I've run out."

It was probably the last thing she had expected him to say. Surprised, she instantly retorted:

"I don't have any morphine!"

He always expected her to have anything he needed to hand - shoelaces, asprin, milk, biscuits; but he was the only person who totally knew her past and could have expected morphine in her fridge along with herbal soothers in Wincarnis. The fact she did not have something he desperately needed pained her. Struck a nerve.

His head went back, and he almost sobbed before he spat back a reply with angry awfulness.

"Then what exactly is the point of you?"

She ignored the insult, for insults from Sherlock Holmes were far from unusual, and were rarely meant when directed at her, however harsh they sounded.. She knew that. Knew more than anything how much it showed his pain and despair and need.

"What is going on?" she demanded. Worrieds for him, not distressed for herself.

Looking for answers from either of them, all of them. But no reply came from any one of them.

"Bloody good question!" snarled John Watson, head sunk down into his shoulders like a bulldog, eyes angry and turned inwards.

"The Watsons are about to have a domestic, and fairly quickly, I hope, because we've got work to do."

Sherlock Holmes spoke almost conversationally from his position in the doorway. The pain had passed through him on another wave, and for the moment he was lax, light-headed, yet almost himself.

John Watson looked across at him, lost in his own hurt and anger, and saw only what he wanted and expected to see; control and assurance and the usual superior knowledge and sense of self. And it annoyed him.

"Oh. I have a better question…."

And turned to his wife. Looked angrily at her as if she was a stranger. Looked at her as if wishing she was a stranger.

"Is everyone I've ever met a psychopath?" The question was as bitter and disillusioned as it was angry. Mary Watson stared at him, speechless and blank of expression

Sherlock Holmes watched them both, thoughtfully.

"Yes," he agreed; speaking for her.

And Mary Watson flashed him a look, finally, and gave a small nod of agreement.

"Good; then we've settled that," Sherlock Holmes was brisk, making the most of the cycle of pain and reprieve; the brief time he had before the pain of the gunshot wound - the additional damage he had done since leaving hospital - would take him again.

"Anyway, we….." he began.

"Shut up!" John Watson wheeled, tearing his eyes from his wife to turn with hot and even more angry eyes to his former flatmate.

Mrs Hudson jumped at the savagery in his voice and his body language, savagery she had never seen from the former soldier before, and in reaction clapped her hand over her mouth. But in truth John Watson had forgotten Mrs Hudson was even in the room.

"…..And stay shut up," he clenched his fists and took a step towards Sherlock, on the verge of losing all control. "Because this is not funny. Not this time."

"I didn't say it was funny," Sherlock responded gently.

Looking hard, pausing, yet finding no anger or aggression in Sherlock to attack, John Watson now turned back on his wife yet again..

"You! What have I ever done - hmn -" he hovered on the point of losing all control, even the ability to speak. Made a noise low in his throat, pulled himself back from the brink. "….in my whole life to deserve you?"

Sherlock saw the agony in Mary Watson's face, and again answered for her.

"Everything."

Watson swung back towards him like a boxer, low, balanced on his toes, primed to attack. Stepped forward, hands fisted at his side.

"Sherlock. I have told you…." walked towards him, threat and danger about to overflow - "Shut up."

"Oh, I mean it." The voice was a quiet unaggressive purr.

Sherlock Holmes stood his ground. Because he had neither the energy nor the willpower to do anything else.

"Seriously. Everything - everything - you've ever done is what you did ." he said.

"Sherlock;" Another low warning "One more word and you will not need morphine….."

It was a snarled and clear threat, but his friend did not back down.

"You were a doctor who went to war…" he began. Swallowed, looked intently into the face of John Watson. Committed himself.

As he spoke, something in his soul braced itself and prepared to make a last stand and to die in a good cause, if needed.

He had to tell John Watson who he was and why he was. He had to relate. He had to reveal….he knew that. And that commitment was thanks to Molly Hooper. If thanks was the right word.

o0o0o0o

She had glided gently into his hospital room the day before. Watchful, quietly determined and self deprecating as ever, fresh from work and laden with bags; carrier bags of shopping from Tesco's for herself, a ream of odd items pulled one by one from her huge floppy handbag for him.

He had quirked an eyebrow at her, lightly amused by the normality of how she produced cherry lozenges and wine gums to soothe a throat sore from recent intubation. Red grapes 'because that's what invalids need.' A bottle of energy drink. A newspaper and three recent editions of the British Medical Journal, a fresh tube of mint and apple toothpaste, a notepad and pen. A packet of ginger nuts in an airtight tub. A get well card with ducklings on the front.

She produced each item with a commentary. And he let her prattle on until she ran out of words and things to place on the bed with him, and finally sat down in the empty chair by his side.

"I don't think I have forgotten anything that might be useful," she said with an air of finality.

"Tell me why you are here?" As question.

"To see you getting better. To bring you essentials other visitors might forget." She smiled over brightly at him and twirled her fingers together.

"Tell me why you are here." As command.

"Had a mystery drowning into the morgue yesterday you would have liked. But you were here."

"So who was there?"

He looked at her with cold interrogation and watched her flinch.

"Sorry, Molly," he unbent a little. "I sleep a lot. Drugged out of my mind a lot. Have to make the most of lucid times. So speak quickly. Before I fall asleep again."

She accepted his analysis and nodded.

"I had a visitor yesterday. Might have been you; sat down on your stool without a word. Sat watching me work. Sat for ages,"

"John," he said with certainty.

"Yes," she agreed. There was a pause while she debated with herself what to say next.

"He's….hurting, Sherlock."

"Two of us, then."

"Stop being the smart arse!" she snapped. And he immediately bowed his head a little in silent apology.

"I threw him out of here earlier. "

"He was upset."

"Too bad. He'd overstayed his welcome. I am not his penance."

"Sherlock, stop it!"

In frustration she flung her little fists in his direction, and she watched him flinch in his turn.

"He doesn't _know,_ Sherlock!"

"Know - what?"

"Oh, for pity's sake!" she made a little embarrassed laugh of disbelief that got no further than her throat. "Anything! He doesn't know anything! Not why you died - why you jumped. What you did and who - exactly - you did it for. Where you went. About Serbia, How ill you were. He doesn't understand why you are pushing him away."

She watched him roll his head away on the pillow and close his eyes. But she kept talking.

"He doesn't even know what happened….with…with…Magnussen. He doesn't know anything!"

She rounded on him, ignoring the equipment trying to make him whole, ignoring his pallor and pain. She was his fury, the voice of his conscience. As ever.

"Why haven't you told him?"

He rolled his head back to her and opened his eyes.

"I….tried. When I am came back. He…he hit me."

"So? He was upset. What did you expect? And he still doesn't understand."

"Not my fault."

"Sherlock! Why haven't you told him? He doesn't know - understand - anything. What you did. What you sacrificed. To save him."

"And others," he corrected. "I did try. He wouldn't listen to me."

They looked at each other blankly, and his usual eloquence failed him.

"Did you….tell him instead?"

The question - five hard words to ask - forced themselves out despite him. Because he really did not want to know the answer.

"Of course not. That's between the two of you."

She watched him shake his head, a shadow passing over his face.

"You've got to tell him, Sherlock. He only let Mary in because he had lost you…" she blushed, embarrassed.. "That didn't come out right, but you know what I mean! He thought he had built a whole new life, and was happy. Then you returned, and he was confused.

"Now he doesn't know if he's coming or going. What he's done to upset you. Why he can't get the friendship back to what it was. Why you keep forcing him away. Even when he thought you were dying…"

"I can't explain, Molly. I must keep him away from me; it's the only way to keep him safe."

She sat and searched his face for a long time. Knew he was speaking truth and his heart.

"It's this case you're on, isn't it? There's something awful about it; and it's doing something awful to you."

"Molly….." The one word was plea and warning and admission.

"Sherlock: you can't keep doing this. You can't keep shutting John out, You need him. He needs you. Please, please talk to him…"

He was shaking his head as she spoke, and she leant forward to hold his head between her hands, to stop him doing that, to make him listen and learn.

"He is so upset, Sherlock. He thought he was moving into a new life, going to be happy. But now….he…he doesn't even know who he is. You're not dead any more. But you have left him more alone now than when he thought you were dead."

"He has Mary. Mary is all he needs. Should be all he needs."

"Oh, Sherlock."

She put her forehead to his, her usual diffidence forgotten.

"You saved his life, Sherlock. You are tied together forever by that…"

"And he saved mine. We cancel each other out."

"It doesn't work like that. You know that really. You do. You are his life, Sherlock."

"And Mary is his love. She has the greater claim."

"You can live without love. But you cannot have love without life. And you are his life. His life force."

"No."

"Sherlock, he was in tears last night. He was so upset…and that upset me. You have got to tell him what has happened. So he understands … where he is in the universe."

"Easy to say."

"Yes, it is. Some people talk about love and life all day. Make it their reason for living. You - typically - are the exact opposite."

She sighed and stroked her thumbs across his cheekbones, a softness he shrank away from.

"You two need to talk. He is imaging all sorts of daft things as to why you are shutting him out. Stupid things. That you are dying of a horrible disease. That you are in love with Mary. That you are in love with him. That someone is blackmailing you. Threatening to kill you. He is thinking all sorts…."

"Molly, stop. Please. Please. Stop."

He twisted his head out of her hands, but he could not physically escape her, nor contain a sob of frustration and pain.

She stroked his cheek and eased the tears from the corners of his eyes.

"What has happened to you? Apart from being shot, of course!" she risked a tiny laugh and a smile, and he smiled a tiny smile back to her. Not to turn her words and actions into a joke, but to show that although she had hurt him, he recognised the pain was essential, cathartic, the impulse to a way forward. "I am not the only person here for you, Sherlock. John is here for you too. If you will only let him. But he is lost - floundering.

"Help him, Sherlock. So he can help you. Start by telling him who is he. So he can work out which way up he is standing."

She patted his cheek and released him. Could no longer look at his ravaged, hollow face.

"I'm sorry. I should go. My….my frozen chicken fillets for tea will be thawing…."

He reached for her hand, and laughed; a genuine, tremulous laugh.

"Molly…."

"No. I can't say any more, I've said too much as it is. Just talk to John. Tell him who he is. Go on from there…."

And she gathered her bags, flustered, her diffident normal self again, and left the room without another word.

He was left looking at the space where she had been. Slowly and hesitantly he tidied the things she had chosen for him with such care and thoughtfulness. Leant back into the pillows and began to compute.

He was Sherlock Holmes. This was what he did. First. And last. And in every space in between.

o0o0o

So now he took a deep breath. And with total deliberation looked into the eyes of John Watson and did Molly Hooper's bidding, In response to John Watson's appeal to her. Because it made sense.

"You were a doctor who went to war," he began. Heart in mouth. Soul in eyes. Courage in both hands. He swallowed hard and continued. Committed now. Whatever happened.

"You're a man who couldn't stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high. That's me by the way."

His eyes slipped sideways, escaping the intense angry gaze of John Watson. He forced a smile to break the tension, and waved a hand. "Hello!" John Watson almost smiled then, and Sherlock Holmes saw. Was emboldened. "Even the landlady used to run a drugs cartel."

"It was my husband's cartel," interjected Mrs Hudson with irritated precision. "I was just typing."

"And exotic dancing," he pointed out, piqued.

"Sherlock Holmes, if you've been YouTube-ing me….." she began, shocked. But he interrupted her; he had something more important he still needed to say. While he still could. He could not stop now he had started. Any more than he could stop the blood rising within him, taking over the machine.

"John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You're abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people…so is it truly such a surprise that the woman you've fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?"

John Watson heard and processed the words. Looked pained. Recognised the truth of the words Sherlock was saying. He swallowed, tried for speech, waved a hand towards his wife.

"But she wasn't supposed to be like that. Why is she like that?" The voice was torn and tearful, but something had changed in the eyes, now. Sense and direction returning home from a wilderness.

Suddenly, without fuss, the old rapport was back. Sherlock pronounced - and Watson opened his heart. The consulting detective recognised this. Saddened, not exultant. And his face twisted with sympathy for the simple truth he had to explain.

"Because you chose her."

Whether that was the answer he wanted, that was the answer he got. And it held the brevity of absolute truth.

John Watson wheeled away in frustration. Saw three people watching him - the three people he loved most in the world. But none of them were helping or reassuring him.

"Why is everything… always….my fault?

The last word punched out with huge force as John Watson's frustrations boiled over.

He turned and viciously kicked the little side table before him, the safest target in reach, and it flew across the room. Mrs Hudson, and even Sherlock, jumped in surprise. But Mary remained silent and still in the face of his outburst.

"Oh, the neighbours!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, running away from him into the kitchen.

Sherlock Holmes took a huge, steadying breath. Fixed his eyes upon his friend as if willing him to calmness by force of personality alone.

"John." His voice was so quiet it sounded like another person. "Listen. Be calm and answer me. What is she?"

John Watson's head dropped, all his focus on his wife.

"My lying wife," he ventured.

"No." Sherlock Holmes still spoke calmly; levelly, and with a patience that seemed to belong to another man. "What is she?"

"…And the woman who's carrying my child and has lied to me since the day I met her," Watson continued as if uninterrupted.

"No. Not in this flat. Not in this room. Right here - right now. What is she?" The voice was still the calm expression of logic. And finally the doctor understood what the detective was telling him of the easiest and clearest way to move forward. For objectivity, distance, reason.

"OK. Your way," he capitulated to the stronger mind, the brighter intelligence, as always. But was irked by that this time. So complied with some bitterness: "Always your way."

Sherlock lowered his head and avoided the burning eyes, his face twisting. There was no victory but logic in winning that particular battle of wills.

Doctor Watson picked up a dining chair, placed it precisely and with determination in the middle of the room between the two facing armchairs.

"Sit," he snapped at his wife.

"Why?" she asked mildly enough.

Because that is where they sit," he replied brusquely. "The people who come in here with their stories. The clients. Because that is all you are now, Mary. You're a client. This is where you sit and talk,,,,,and this is where we sit and listen. And then we decide if we want you or not."

He sniffed forcefully, a characteristic decisive action. Walked - formal military posture - to his usual chair as if heading to a firing squad. Sat down, unconsciously adjusting the cushion behind him. After a pause, and into a heavy silence, Sherlock Holmes walked forward to his own chair with pained deliberation. He avoided meeting his own eyes in the mirror over the mantel.

For a moment he faced Mary Watson, looked at her briefly, gave a small nod. Permission? Recognition? Sympathy? But the fleeting moment passed as he turned, awkwardly and without his usual fluid grace, to sit in his own armchair. Still wearing the protective armour of the Belstaff, shaking hands firmly hidden in it's capacious pockets. Looking down and away.

Mary Watson watched the two men in her life adopt their usual stances and positions, and finally moved herself to sit on the hard dining chair. Put her bag onto the floor beside her, adjust her coat and jeans. Clear her throat and look at her husband expectantly.

As if making a decision she placed a pen drive on the oak side table between herself and John Watson. Sherlock Holmes, grimacing in increasing pain no-one else in the room seems to even notice, focused down on it.

The drive was stainless steel, but looked silver in the light: and in black marker pen, in handwritten scrawl, the capital letters: A. G. R. A.

"Agra: what's that?"

Holmes and Watson looked at her for elucidation.

"Everything about who I was is in there," explained Mary Watson slowly, her voice raw with something indefinable. And she looked at her husband when she continued: "If you love me, don't read it in front of me."

"Why?"

"Because you won't love me when you've finished…" Just for a moment, her face is as naked as her voice. "And I don't want to see that happen." Her voice cracked. She heard it, gave herself a small shake and turned to her equal and her adversary. Her victim. Sherlock Holmes.

"How much do you know already?" The words are almost a snarl.

He sighed, but answered concisely. "By your skill set you are - or were - an intelligence agent. Your accent is currently English, but I suspect you are not. You're on the run from something. You've used your skill sets to disappear…." he sucked a breath as a wave of pain cut through him. "Magnussen knows your secrets; which is why you were going to kill him. And I assume you befriended Janine in order to get close to him."

For that moment the irony of his words were not lost on her.

"Oh! You can talk!"

He flashed a look, smiled at her, gave a hum of appreciation.

Watson, stung, suddenly excluded from the wordless communication between his friend and his wife, could only react and snap in retaliation.

"Look at you two. You should have got married."

He heard the hurt and the jealousy in the words, but could neither hold them in nor call them back. And what made that worse was neither the man nor the woman before him reacted to or even registered his pain.

"The stuff Magnussen has on me, I would go to prison for the rest of my life," observed his wife. Who was suddenly a person he did not recognise any more.

"So you were just gonna kill him."

"People like Magnussen should be killed," she retorted immediately, faster and harder than thought. And with biting reality added, and finally admitted: "That's why there are people like me."

"Perfect!" he snapped back, and did not think he could hurt any more than he did at that moment. "So that's what you were? An assassin?"

The question sounded like a joke. Like melodrama. Like a nightmare. He would have laughed if he had not felt he knew the answer before it came. "How could I not see that?

"You did see that." She paused, almost smiled. He did not recognise the expression on his wife's face as belonging to anyone he knew. She recognised that, and in a tone of infinite sadness added: "And you married me. Because he's right." She slanted a knowing look at Sherlock, who met her eyes then, but rapidly looked away "It's what you like."

Into the ensuing silence Sherlock Holmes twisted in his chair, twisted in pain. And still no-one else registered his distress. So neither did he.

"So….Mary…" the words cranked out of him despite his increasing weakness. "Any documents that Magussen has concerning yourself you want….extracted and returned…."

"Why would you help me?"

Her question was sharp and serious. But his face and voice were unusually ingenuous. And true.

"Because…. you saved my life."

"S- sorry. What?" Watson made it clear in his question that he did not believe what he had just heard.

But Sherlock Holmes was speaking only to Mary Watson now.

"When I happened on you and Magnusson…" a spasm of pain made him go cold and clammy, his hands clutch the chair arms, suck a couple of hard breaths The pain ripped through him, increasing in strength, and that it's demands be answered. "There was a problem More specifically, you had a witness. The solution of course was simple. Kill us both and leave. However, sentiment got the better of you. One precisely calculated shot to incapacitate me. In the hope that it would bide you more time to negotiate my silence."

He paused. No argument, no lies, no protests. So he continued.

"f course you couldn't shoot Magnussen. On the night that both of us broke into the building, your own husband would become a suspect. So you calculated Magnusson .." a wave of pain disorientated him for a long second. Before he could continue. "Not sharing the information with the police as is his MO. And then you left the way you came." he paused ads the room shifted around him. Began again. "Have I missed anything?"

Doggedly returning to what he did not understand in the narrative, John Watson forced Sherlock Holmes to backtrack.

"How did she save your life?"

"She phoned the ambulance."

"I phoned the ambulance," he corrected.

"She phoned first. You didn't find me for another five minutes. Left to you, I would have died. The average arrival time for a London ambulance is…."

He lifted his right hand to look at his wristwatch, but found he needed the left hand to help the right lift and stay raised.

Just as two paramedics clattered up the stairs and into the sitting room, urgent, wrong footed now, stuttering to a halt in the centre of the doorway, Looking puzzled.

"….Eight minutes," Sherlock concluded. Breathing heavily, left hand still raised from checking the time; physical actuality against expectation.

"Did you bring any morphine?" he rapped out. "I asked on the phone….?"

"We were told there was a shooting…? The shorter paramedic with the curly ginger hair and the wide eyes, looked even more puzzled than when he had entered the room.

"There was," gasped Sherlock with deliberation. "Last week."

Now measuring the pulse rate on his left wrist with his right hand, he dragged in a sharp breath and tried to speak as levelly and clearly as possible.

"But I believe I'm bleeding internally and my pulse is very erratic."

This was critical. This was urgent. He carefully placed his hands on the arms of his chair and levered himself upwards.

But as he did so there was a disorientating shock of pain through his entire body and he folded over.

"You may need to restart my heart on the way."

He had not intended to sound so melodramatic. But throughout that entire awful evening neither the doctor nor the nurse had seemed to register or recognise his increasing pain and incapacity; that something awful had happened to him when he had bent so carefully to pick up that 50p piece on the floor of Leinster Gardens; and that he had been getting steadily worse as the evening worse on.

So to speak as he did now was not being melodramatic. It was statement of fact, a cry for help, a plea for assistance. A complaint against pain that could no longer be ignored. He hadn't meant the words to break, or to break him. But they did.

For on the word 'heart' his voice broke, sounding as if he had been kicked in the throat, and he started to fall.

John and Mary Watson unerringly united for the first time in a long time to rush towards him, taking a side each, taking an arm each to hold him up as the paramedics also rushed forward.

"Come on Sherlock. Come on Sherlock." John Watson, unflappable doctor in another life and time, found himself chanting, repeating the same three words; curse, prayer, command. Or a mix of all three.

He groaned with a sort of despair and grasped his friend's shoulders as Mary Watson stepped back and lets the paramedics take over and support Sherlock Holmes..

"John?"

The patient rallied. Had something urgent to convey.

The paramedics dropped their bags, and took hold to support his weight and ease him down, but he ignored them, clutching Watson in his turn. Making him listen. Making him believe.

"John. Magnussen is all that matters now. You can trust Mary. She saved my life."

"She shot you."

"Er…" a quirked grin, a movement of the eyes. The old Sherlock he knew and loved. The intelligence, the certainty. Despite the pain and the exhaustion. "Mixed messages I grant you."

And suddenly it was all too much. A grimace, a cry of pain that could not be contained or disguised.

Sherlock Holmes started to fall, letting John Watson and the paramedics lower him gently down to his own red Turkish sitting room carpet. Groaning, gasping, crying out with unsurpressable pain.

Dr John Watson had spent his army career in theatres of war tending the wounded and the dying. Yet he had never herd cries of pain and anguish such as came from Sherlock Holmes then. His invulnerable, impossible Sherlock Holmes. And it twisted a knife in his heart.

"Sherlock? Sherlock? All right, take him."

Sherlock cried out again and this time Dr Watson stepped back, hopeless and helpless, leaving his friend to the care of others.

"Got him?"

Looked on in concern as one of the paramedics applied an oxygen mask.

Looked up at his wife as their eyes clashed across a silence.

With absolutely nothing to say to each other as their friend became a patient and the patient became an emergency.

TO BE CONTINUED...

 **Author's Note:**

Wincarnis is the trade name of an old fashioned health wine drink.


	26. Chapter 26

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 26: Nothing new….'

"Open your eyes! Open your eyes and breathe, damn you! Listen to me! Stop being the boy who cried wolf and just….breathe"

The words were hissed into his ear and the sheer vehemence of them cut through the woolliness in his head.

He gagged around the plastic tube down his throat that was breathing for him but just sounded - and felt - as if he was trying to be sick. His eyes flickered - too fast. Registering light and shade but without vision. But he heard another voice cut in… a nurse? A junior doctor?

"He is still very ill….won't wake yet….probably can't hear you…."

"Oh, he will hear me all right!" returned the voice, with a driven anger no less effective for being whispered. He even felt the draught of that breath on his ear, as he sensed the speaker leaning closer to him.

"Wake up, you bloody drama queen. Wake up and face me! Explain yourself!"

He groaned, rolled his head away a little.

"There! Look! He moved! He heard me! I told you!"

Sherlock Holmes juddered a huge sigh and the monitors attached to him started to bleep in concert.

"Yes. Looks as if he is coming back. If you could just….."

 _OK. They only allow relatives in when the patient is close to death. But now they know I am truly alive. Not close to death any longer. Typical bloody Mycroft - who else could nag the dead to life? At least they will send him away so I can ignore him now and just go to sleep._

So he did.

o0o0o0o

"I know you are awake. Because I know you too well. Open your bloody eyes. I haven't got all day to sit here and wetnurse you."

The same voice. More peeved than before, but less driven.

 _Sore throat, but breathing, anyhow. That was progress. Heavy head, full of drugs. The edges of pain pushing, reminding it is still there, waiting to take over as soon as it gets the chance. But there is the blessed block of morphine doing it's job. Breathing creaked, dragged, scratched._

 _Repress the desire to cough. OK, then - cough anyway. Swear and flinch_.

"Serves you right," said the same voice, noticing.

"Myc…"

"Don't talk. Listen. You really should be dead this time. Pushed your luck too far, even for you. I suppose you know you ripped your lung open again? Ripped out the ties on your hilum? Undid all the good work that saved you the last time? And that yet another ambulance back to hospital is not your private taxi service. Another operation, Sherlock. Another return from the brink.

"Why should the NHS bother to keep on saving a critically injured fool who walks out of hospital on a whim? What were you thinking?"

"Life or death….." rasped the reply.

"Precisely so." A beat while Mycroft Holmes calmed himself. "But your life - _your life_ \- is more important than either of the Watsons. Their situation is so far from urgent it verges on the utterly irrelevant."

"Didn't….know you cared." Something resembling a grin twisted the patient's mouth.

"I don't. But you have more utility."

They glared at each other. Nothing new there. The visitor stared down the patient and the patient closed his eyes.

"Why the urgency, Sherlock? You must have known I have my eye on Magnussen now. That he will be made subtly aware of that surveillance, and such awareness should give him pause. In any case the machinery is turning and he will be brought back before the Parliamentary Select Committee to answer for his behaviour. January, on current schedule."

"Months away. Needs stopping now."

"The delay will…."

"….Should….," snapped the firm interruption

"….Contain his behaviour," Mycroft continued as if the interruption had not happened. "Slam on his brakes. Not soon enough for Jack Smallwood, perhaps. But such small tragedies are a part of life. Elizabeth understands."

Sherlock Holmes shook his head and made an angry hum in his throat.

"No good doing that. The Watsons are not vital in any way. And, in any case, we shall keep a weather eye on Mrs Watson. If only to make sure she does not get it right this time and finish what she started. Finally kill you."

"She won't."

"And how can you be certain of that, little brother? Blind faith? Misplaced loyalty? A sense of obligation? To you - of all people?"

Mycroft Holmes laughed cynically and without humour.

"Get your head straight, brother mine. This time take a proper recuperation to restore your detachment and equilibrium. You have been off piste for months now. Perhaps this enforced - ah - rest will do you more good than you may yet realise."

"Benefits from being shot?" Sarcastically.

"Benefits indeed. Not the least is removing you from the orbit of Magnussen. That was becoming as unsavoury as it was dangerous. Lady Smallwood has paid you off, I transferred her payment to your account yesterday. Your involvement in the case is over. And I for one am glad."

"You had no right!"

Righteous anger met righteous anger, and neither intended to yield.

"I have every right! Someone had to intercede. And you may have noticed that responsibility always falls upon me. My mission. My duty of care."

"I don't want your duty of care! I never have!"

"Tough."

"This is not over. I have not completed…."

"Nor will you." Mycroft took a deep breath to restore calm "Listen to me, just for once. You were shot, and you died. You have almost died again - twice - in the past ten days. Even if you were a cat with nine lives you would be starting to run out of luck. Of lives. And of options. Recovery from this will take months.

"Face facts. You may never return to the level of fitness you had before. And I don't mean before ten days ago. I mean before you leapt off that bloody roof. Almost three years now since you were yourself. Deal with that. Or I swear I shall deal with it for you."

Sherlock Holmes closed hot angry eyes and rolled his head away on the pillow. If he had had the energy or the capacity he would have punched his equally angry brother. If he even had the strength to punch his pillow.

In their world of self contained responses both knew they were being much more emotional than usual, and neither was enjoying the experience.

Mycroft Holmes leant forward to speak with a quiet and total sincerity unusual for him.

"Dig deep, Sherlock. Come back to who and what you should be. Not for me. Or the Watsons. Or even England. But for yourself. Just for once look after yourself this time. Please."

Eyes closed, body immobile, tension disguised by the plethora of tubes and wires connecting him to life via the machines that underlined his own machine inspired mentality, the consulting detective gave no sign of listening or heeding.

Or even registering his elder brother's so rarely expressed human concern. Which was unsettling if not downright frightening in itself.

"I'm not saying this out of familial weakness, or my usual determination to score a point, or even to just piss you off. In plain. I say this simply because someone has to. It is what you need to hear. And then act upon." He fixed a perceptive eye on the damaged body before him. And continued more softly:

"Even the most perfect thinking machine in the world needs care and maintenance from time to time. This is prudence, Sherlock, not weakness. You do not have to be like this. You really don't." He leant forward and pushed forward the force of his own personality onto the invalid.

"I know you think of yourself as having to be superhuman, but to be that you first have to be alive. And to be alive you sometimes have to stop pushing the transport beyond it's limits. You are no longer firing on all cylinders. Admit it. Allow yourself to be fixed."

No reaction. As anticipated. So; reverted to steely again:

"And in any case, you are no use to anyone unless you are fit and healthy. Body as well as brain. There is a strong case…"

Hs quiet insistent voice was interrupted by the door to the side ward pushing open, and then someone who was neither a nurse nor a consultant surgeon was entering the room.

"Morning, Mycroft. How's our patient?"

Mycroft Holmes did not bother to turn or return the greeting. He simply sat back and watched as Dr John Watson - cropped greying blond hair, soft denims, dove grey check shirt and muddy brown cardigan - scanned the notes attached to the end of the bed, gave the still and silent patient a piercing glance, played his hands over the machines surrounding the room, checking the dials and readings with too much care, and finally put a tentative hand to the pulse point at the consulting detective's long pale neck.

The British Government remained patient, and watchful, as the activity stilled, the studied quiet of the room settled, and then he finally spoke again.

"Dr Watson. You have read his notes, checked the machinery, checked their readings, and, just to confirm what you already knew, you have taken my brother's pulse.

"All of which was completely unnecessary as there are staff employed here to do that.

So perhaps you would like to explain to me why the hand you had on his neck to unnecessarily check that carotid pulse has now moved down to his hand. And you are holding it."

John Watson eyes followed Mycroft Holmes' line of sight and unashamedly regarded his square tanned right hand encircling the pale slim fingers of his former flatmate.

"Human comfort, Mycroft. To assure me he is really here and recovering; to reassure him I am here when he cannot see me Anything in that boring tactile stuff you've ever heard of?"

"He doesn't need that."

Oh yes he does, Everyone does."

"Not Sherlock, Please unhand him."

"Would he be impressed by your level of brotherly love to hear that, hmn?"

"He can hear me saying that, and would expect no less of me. You may think he is asleep because his eyes are closed and he is lying perfectly still, but let me assure you that he is awake and listening to us.

"He has been awake for some time. He was awake when you entered the room. Did you really think I was sitting here talking to myself?"

"Wouldn't put it past you. Knowing how much you like the sound of your own voice."

John Watson shot a brief grin in the direction of the man sitting so formally erect opposite him and decided he would never really understand either of the Holmes brothers, but that conundrum no longer mattered.

He then looked down into the taut and rigid face of Sherlock Holmes, and as he did so the familiar grey green eyes opened. Looking in his direction, yet distant, not communicating. Miles away from him.

Those empty eyes then dropped to his hand resting in John Watson's hand, but they did not lift to meet, so did not register, the new concern in the eyes of his friend.

"Morning, Sherlock. Welcome back. Again."

He was determined to sound positive and encouraging, squeezed the fingers, patted the hand. Two hands enclosed that one hand now.

"Dr Watson, please." Mycroft's arch detached interruption had an edge of impatience now. "Let go of Sherlock's hand. He is unused to being given or receiving physical comfort, and I would not like him weakened by the experience. Even less to come to expect it."

"God forbid that might happen," muttered Watson into the air. And held the lax hand even tighter.

Sherlock Holmes looked directly up at him then. This time the blank pale eyes met concerned bright blue ones. Assessing. But still not engaging.

He shifted those dead eyes towards his brother with what seemed immense effort, tugged his hand from Watson's grip so it fell heavily onto the mattress at his side.

The doctor looked at the narrow upturned hand with the curled fingers stilled and empty, and thought he had never seen anything sadder or lonelier.

"That's better," complimented Mycroft Holmes in the tone of voice an elderly uncle might adopt to patronise a small child. "Much more like your normal self. Good. That's good, isn't it, Sherlock? Almost had me worried there. "

Still without registering any expression or speaking, the patient closed his eyes and shifted down the bed as if turning in on himself. And in that moment John Watson felt a swift pang of regret that had him think he had lost Sherlock Holmes forever.

Something cold crept into his heart. His wife had turned out to be something she was not. So he was clearly useless at judging people. Had he misjudged Sherlock Holmes too? After all the intense years seeing and learning the man, watching him talk himself into the role of freak, sociopath, impossible genius, calculating machine…..could it possibly be true that the role was in fact the reality?

That it was true the consulting detective had no heart, no emotion, no feeling for anyone? And least of all for himself? And that he had been fooled by Sherlock Holmes all this time?

"What the fuck have you done? What have you said to him, Mycroft?" Watson turned to the older brother, voice low yet intense. "He's never the most emotional person in the world, but he's never as far from us as this."

"I have done nothing to him, Dr Watson." Mycroft Holmes looked down at his motionless younger brother. "My brother has simply returned to base, as you might say. Reverted to type. Without the rather pathetic distraction of such sentimental concepts as friendship and loyalty."

"Warm and cosy on your planet, is it, Mycroft?"

"Yes, thank you, Dr Watson. Over here we always know where we are, my brother and I. No mere mortals involved, no chance of betrayal."

John Watson's face reddened, twisted, ,and he glared across the bed at the tall elegant edifice sitting there.

"You referring to me?"

"Heaven forfend," was the dry return.

"Oh, that's a relief. I thought it was one of those hyper clever Holmes type insults that are so brainy it takes mere mortals like me a fortnight to understand them."

Mycroft Holmes sucked in a sharp breath.

"Dr Watson, you saved my brother's life. Why ever do you think I would demean both of us by insulting you?"

The two locked eyes, and it was John Watson who looked away first.

"Just for the record, Dr Watson: I feel I should tell you that I do not consider your wife and yourself to be indivisible." Mycroft Holmes was at his most Machiavellian at that moment. And John Watson recognised that.

But words failed him. That was as close to a compliment and a declaration of trust he was ever likely to get from the senior Holmes. Even if it had an edge to it he did not care to think about.

There was a brief pause, and then:

"And now I must go, Work calls. I leave my brother in your care. So do look after him this time."

Then the British Government was gone, without word of farewell, or giving John Watson a chance to reply.

The air and the silence settled in the room behind him as his precise steps were heard receding down the corridor.

"You can open your eyes now," Watson said unnecessarily, turning back to the still shape on the bed. "He's gone."

Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes. Looked at John Watson. Who grinned at him.

"You look a lot better today."

"You, however, haven't been home yet. Five days. Same clothes as the day I was rushed to hospital from Baker Street. From the smell of cheap laundry liquid Mrs Hudson washed your shirt. So she let you stay at Baker Street? She shouldn't have."

Watson absorbed the shock. Considered several different replies but finally said:

"She is kind. Unlike you."

The defensive barb was wasted, as usual.

"Go home to your wife."

"How can I? Now I know she shot my best friend?"

 _Stop being pathetic, John. It doesn't suit you. Reality check._

"I am not your best friend," corrected the remorseless voice. "She is. That's why you married her."

 _Reality check._

"She's not who I thought she was." His face shifted. Sherlock Holmes noted that fact.

 _Too true. Live with it._

"Then go home and learn the new one. Go. I'm tired. You must be, too.

"I'm not sure tired is the word…"

"It'll do."

For the moment their eyes met, clashed. As always the will of Sherlock Holmes was the stronger.

"You have to face her some time. Sleep in the spare room if you must. Until you forgive her."

 _Reality check._

"Who says I will forgive her?" Watson raised his head, ready for argument; used to Sherklock Holmes interfering with his thought processes, but still not liking it.

"I do. Because you want to."

 _Reality check._

"Jesus, Sherlock….."

"You're not hiding in Baker Street. Procrastinating. Taking the easy way out."

"It would help."

"No."

"Why not?"

 _Reality check_

"Because you made your choice when you married her," Sherlock Holmes said with rare and unexpected gentleness. "Coupling. Convention. Companionship. Sex and a baby. That's normality, John. Natural human ambition for a man of your age and inclinations. And nothing you can get from me."

For a long moment John Watson bent his head and was silent, overcome by a torrent of complex feelings he could not define. But when he looked up Sherlock Holmes was still regarding him with a strange combination of compassion and unblinking decision.

Unable to speak, Watson nodded, and Sherlock Holmes released a tremulous breath he had not realised he had been holding.

"OK." John Watson stood, all military decision now. Speaking briskly. "OK. You're right. I know you're right. I'll go home and make my peace with Mary. See where we go from here. Satisfied?"

 _And finally._

"Yes. Thank you, John."

Decision made, the doctor and husband looked at Sherlock Holmes for his approval, for the usual grin and imperious expression. As always.

Instead the patient in the bed looked as if he had been punched. Or his life support withdrawn. A huge sigh, and release of muscle tension. Looked oddly smaller, and older, and paler. Not speaking. Watson saw, and felt breathless.

"Hey, mate, it's OK. I knew you'd make me make the right decision; but finding out your wife is not the loving nurse you fell in love with, but an assassin who shot your best friend - well, it takes some coming to terms with. You know?"

With the decision made he felt almost lightheaded, able to relax his shoulders for the first time in the five days since Sherlock Holmes had collapsed dying onto his own sitting room floor.

"I'll go. Go and do it. But I'll just make you comfortable first."

"No!"

The patient's eyes fired into life again. From relief to something like fear in a second. Braced himself with his hands against the mattress. The machines bleeped a warning.

"Hey, come on, don't work yourself up. You've slipped down the bed and need sorting out, that's all. And mind you don't dislodge that cannula in the back of your hand…"

"A nurse will do it."

"Yeah - and will take another hour to get to you." John Watson ignored the refusal. "When I can do it now, and in seconds. Don't be daft."

"I'm fine. Really fine."

The consulting detective flapped a hand, but could not move enough, or away enough, to avoid being cared for.

"That's what you always say about everything. I pay no attention."

John Watson stepped closer to the bed and presented his arm to hook under Sherlock's and raise him up the bed. Too close, now. Too intimate. Both men froze.

"Not going till we've done this," Watson declared crisply. "Doctor speaking."

His turn to be decisive.

 _Reality…Oh…_

After a long pause his friend gave a sharp little nod of decision and averted his eyes. Acquiesced to the efficiently lifting arm that glided him effortlessly back up the bed again and then tugged forwards.

"Just lean forward a little so I can tidy your pillows…"

He steadied one supportive hand onto bony shoulder blades while he straightened and plumped the three pillows, and it was only as he started to ease Sherlock backwards did he consciously register what his hand had told him moments earlier.

He stopped in mid movement, paused while easing Sherlock into the pillows.

"No….." he said softly to himself. "No. That's not right."

His sensitive doctor's fingertips had felt something out of place. Something too smooth about the skin across the shoulders, yet ridges and hollows across the muscles that should not be there. A roughness where all should be smooth; glassy smoothness where there should be the velvety texture of unblemished skin. Unblemished….no.

He could feel the tension lock into his friend's body even as he stilled it's movement.

"This….is….not….right." he said slowly, fingers thoroughly yet gently exploring the shoulder blades and back. Easing himself carefully around and behind the patient without comment, he risked a look between the ties of the hospital gown as he pushed it quietly aside. Just a quick look. All that was needed. He had seen more than enough of this sort of thing before, but not since his army days. And was shocked to his core.

He looked at Sherlock Holmes with new eyes and sat carefully on the edge of the bed.

"Were you ever going to tell me about this?" he asked, quietly and conversationally. No pressure, no stress.

For in the prim stillness of his body after he had been finally allowed to sink back into the pillows, Sherlock Holmes was carrying enough pressure and stress for them both.

"Hmn?" Deflection attempt. Not going to happen. They both knew it.

"Don't stonewall me, Sherlock. Not now." There was no reply. "If you had carried that much damage when I lived with you at Baker Street I would have noticed. I really would have noticed.

"So please tell me that happened to you while you were away. While you were dead."

Averted eyes.

 _Talk to him, Sherlock! He doesn't know anything! Tell him._

 _Molly…? It's too hard, Molly!_

 _Tell him!_

A tiny nod of resignation.

"You were tortured."

The flat, non judgmental doctor's voice - a statement not a question - gave him confidence.

So he nodded agreement.

"Where?"

"The…the last time was Serbia. Mycroft demeaned himself. Legwork out in the field - to bring me back. I'll never live that down." A tiny self deprecating smile. "Three days before your wedding proposal."

"Bad timing." Watson quirked a smile back, then sobered. "But I suppose not so bad if it meant the last of that sort of treatment."

"My fault, that bad timing.."

No. Mine."

John Watson found his hand was clenching into a fist around Sherlock Holmes's shoulder.

"If you had come home two days earlier, Sherlock. A day. An hour…."

 _Stopitstopitstopit…_

"Stop it. It is what it is."

"I thought….." Watson's voice failed him, but he ploughed on. "I thought….you were dead. Two years. I thought you were dead. Any idea what that's like, you total prick?"

He risked another glance at his friend, which showed him nothing.

"Then suddenly - there you were. In front of me. When I was all keyed up for something else entirely…shock was not the word…

"Right in front of me - alive! I'd prayed for that. But - how bloody typical - a stupid disguise, a dodgy accent. But it was no joke, was it? Nor proper apology, either.

"I assumed you were doing a typical Sherlock thing. Selfish, stupid. You being you. I'd forgotten all that.

"Suddenly could see you pratting around the Riviera proving daft gambling mathematical theories. Or hunting the source of the Nile, Tracking unicorns. Looking for Lord Lucan. Something mad you had to do alone.

"And to do that you just left us all behind. Faked your death with typical bloody selfishness and abandoned the rest of us to total grief. How could you do that? How?"

"To save…" Sherlock Holmes began quietly. But was talked over. And let himself be talked over because that covered his soul's nakedness.

"I was angry. Consumed with it. Anyone - anyone normal - would be But you're not normal, are you? So you don't understand. And - yeah - I know that."

Sherlock Holmes froze at the grief amid other mixed emotions he saw on John Watson's face as his voice faltered.

"So I never asked, Sherlock. You reappeared out of thin air and walked all over me - like you always do - and over my attempt to propose to Mary. Not getting - just not getting at all - how upset and relieved and angry and how totally bloody shafted I felt.

And you still don't get that, do you?"

"I'm sorry, John, I….."

 _Stopitstopitstopit…_

" And I know I should have asked. Demanded to know what happened. Because it wasn't ever the selfish game I thought it was. Was it?"

 _Stopitsstopitstopit…_

"No. But I wish it was."

Six words of total honesty that sounded like finality.

The silence between them lengthened and grew. John Watson shifted slightly on the edge of the bed. Looked with new eyes at the bowed curly head, the long lashes shuttering closed the usually turbulent eyes and finally recognised a torment in front of him even worse than his own.

Reached out towards one of the slim empty hands and watched both of them retract into a prim clasp on the blankets at Sherlock Holmes' lap.

"Tell me."

The words fell out of him on a sigh. So he had to repeat them. "Tell me, Sherlock.. The truth."

"It….this…is too hard. I don't do….confidences. ..I can't…"

 _Tell him who he is. Tell him which way is up._

"Sherlock. This isn't the confessional. Just debrief me, for Christ's sake."

The unusual pale eyes risked a look and seemed assured by what they saw. The mind picked itself up from it's sickbed and focussed. A hand reached furtively to the morphine pump. Three rapid jabs. John Watson observed but did not comment. Sherlock needed that…to keep going, To keep talking.

"You know the difficulty and danger we had dealing with Moriarty. A maniac who. wanted to kill me. Who first destroyed my reputation. Years of tracking me since the Carl Powers business. Then endgame that came too soon.

"To make sure I succumbed to his obsession with me - and died - he killed himself up on the roof of Bart's and left me with no alternative but to join him in death."

"What are you talking about?"

"The master criminal wanted in 32 countries gave me an ultimatum. Kill myself. Jump off the roof. Kill myself to save…..other people. Stop the snipers getting to you if I didn't. So I jumped. You saw me jump.

"Mycroft and I had expected some such scheme, had our responses ready. So, to save those people …..we made me die that day." He looked up, intent on having his former flatmate believe and understand. And his voice cracked. "I'm sorry. I did not plan on you seeing. Did not want that. But you came back. Even after I had sent you away….and I tried to tell you. In that phone call. I told you - that it was all a trick. Just a magic trick. My loyal, indefatigable….friend."

Although the voice was little more than a hesitant whisper, it seemed the words could not quite stop once they had finally started.

"As a dead man, I became a man on a mission. To destroy Moriarty's world wide web. Ensure nothing of Moriarty's crime network survived, regrouped, or started up again without him. Or could complete his final instruction.."

"You went round the world doing that? Taking Moriarty's network down? And it took you two years?"

"Yes. Hadn't anticipated it would take quite so long." A tiny, ironic smile and an even smaller shrug.

"But ….all that time, Sherlock. What could merit that?"

"I told you. So they did not regroup and fulfill the final order."

"What final order? What was so awful you had to jump off a roof, play dead for so long? Not even give the poor sods left behind to suffer without you so much as a clue? Abandon everyone who loves you?"

"I didn't abandon….." he began. Bit off what he was about to say. "No-one should love me, so that didn't matter. Immaterial in any case. Moriarty threatened snipers. If I didn't jump off the roof of Bart's his snipers would take out three people. I couldn't have three lives on my conscience. He targeted three people he thought meant something to me. But that was immaterial, too. I could not let three people die in my place.

"He always knew I would jump. On the side of the angels, you see. Just not that I would cheat. Not actually being an angel myself."

John Watson laughed then, despite himself. Typical Sherlock behaviour was not always annoying.

"Nasty. Pure Moriarty, though. I get that, yeah. Mycroft, Mrs Hudson and Molly."

"No. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade…" the voice wavered. "You."

"Me! Why me? Why us?"

John Watson looked genuinely astonished, and his eyes searched the face of Sherlock Holmes for truth and honesty." Why not Mycroft or Molly?"

"I assume because Moriarty had observed my behaviour towards my brother and Molly. He clearly felt neither were important to me. Lestrade has to be exceptional because he has stuck with me longer than anyone. And Mrs Hudson? Well, I suppose Moriarty saw her as my mother figure. "

"Yeah, I get his line of reasoning. But - why me?"

"I told you. At Baskerville I told you. I don't have friends. I had just one friend. And Moriarty saw that."

"Right. OK. So …you mean I really was one of the people you jumped to save?"

"And then had to let you believe I was dead - so your grief was my weapon, my proof of death. Thus negate the shoot to kill threat. The more you mourned, the more convincing my death. Your grief kept you alive, Had to leave you all behind for the very same reason. Until I had removed the threat from you all. And could return."

Sherlock Holmes nodded. John Watson looked at his stark, ravaged face. Thought a moment and understood the enormity and the loneliness of the task. Then spoke up.

"Had. You said - had. 'Had' just one friend."

"Yes, I did have a friend. Before I died for two years." He was looking inwards, concentrating now. "Oh, I understood you needed a best man for your wedding. That as Mike Stamford was unavailable, you chose me instead. I understood why you said I was your best friend, because you needed my cooperation.

"And I also knew that in reality your bride would then naturally become your best friend. It was just a social expression. Not an eternal vow That's OK, John."

"Sherlock, no. Sherlock, shut up. I…"

"Stop it, John. I knew my role. As you should know yours, now. Husband and father. Which that is why you need to go back to Mary and repair the damage."

John Watson sat and fumed and was unable to shape words.

He reached out towards two slim hands and refused to be evaded this time when those hands lifted and flailed and tried to avoid capture. Looked at them as they finally lay rigid in his grasp. Their owner panting with exhaustion and avoidance.

"You are the cleverest man in the room. On the bloody planet. So how can you…how can you be so wrong?"

"I'm not wrong. I can't be wrong."

"Sherlock. I'm not ….we're not….good at this sort of thing. And you are worse than me. So we'll both just have to be brave and…..just say it."

He shook the hands within his own as if for emphasis. There was another brief struggle as the patient tried to break away again.

"I know what to say," Words tumbled out." To apologise for what I should have said, should have explained eight months ago at _The Landmark._ Say I'm sorry, so sorry, for everything. Everything I did. But when I tried to explain it all then….you…..you hit me. And you kept on hitting me…made your opinion of me very plain. Rightly so. I deserved it. So I .. I gave up. I'm sorry."

The words stopped. And to John Watson his turn to speak was a form of confession and of release.

"I'm not proud of my behaviour that night, Sherlock. I should have known there was more to it. Should have made clear…how you caught me on the raw….should have apologised then. Grovelled."

"Not you. Never you, John Watson. Not to me."

The sincerity in Sherlock Holmes's voice pierced John Watson's heart. He did not dare meet the other man's eyes.

"If not to you - to who else? " he asked. And he heard his heart speak his words.

"I don't want to know." The voice was low and intense, full of denial. Driven. "I don't want this conversation. Not any part of it. Go away, John. Molly….."

"What about Molly?"

"Molly said I had to tell you. What happened. Why I died. She said you were upset. Didn't know….things….any more. So I have tried. But I can't do this. "

"What can't you do? Give an honest narrative? Express emotion? Give it a try Sherlock. It might be good for you."

John Watson, despite his bracing words, found himself holding Sherlock Holmes's hands even tighter, leaning forward to rest his forehead onto that of his friend. Feeling his body heat, his energy, even smelling the antiseptic on his skin. Expressing the closeness he had never ventured to express before.

"You are such a bloody idiot," he breathed." For a genius. Why don't you understand how I…"

"Hello! Not interrupting anything, am I?"

Pale eyes and blue eyes - far too close to each other - shocked open at the interruption. Slid apart and towards the person in the doorway.

Kitty Haig - sharp dark suit, hair in a businesslike bun, tablet case in hand, was poised in the doorway. Neither of them had heard her polite knock, her entry. And now she hovered on the threshold. "If I am….I can go away again. I don't want to interrupt your care for your patient, doctor."

"No problem, Kitty." Sherlock Holmes was the first to manage a reply

"Are you sure? Because the boss said….." she swallowed, looked a little lost, a little determined. "The boss said…..he thought you owed us a bedside interview. 'How I survived a shooting, by Sherlock Holmes' Or some suchlike."

"So part of the deal for his silence is a pound of flesh, is it, Kitty? That's fine. Should have expected it. And at least it's you."

"Sorry? I don't…..?" she began. But was interrupted

"Sherlock! Is this what I…..?" John Watson's heart went cold. But Sherlock Holmes turned even colder eyes towards him.

"Dr Watson was just leaving. Weren't you, John?"

The haughty Sherlock Holmes look was back. Withdrawal and challenge both.

John Watson dropped the hands he was holding and stood up with a polite social smile for the new visitor he did not know and with a feeling of total defeat and utter loneliness rampaging through his soul.

"Goodbye, John. Off you go. Things to do. Don't come back."

He was dismissed and forgotten before he even left the room.

o0o0o0o

Several words preoccupied John Watson for the next nine weeks.

Stubborn was one. Stupid was another. If you hyphenated them, pig-headed and bloody-minded were two more. But this was Sherlock Holmes, so who was counting?

Because after another five day session of sitting by his bedside until he was out of intensive care, breathing and thinking for himself, this time the patient banned the doctor and his wife from visiting.

The day after his dismissal from the private room, he had been incredulous when he reached the nurse's station and was told Mr Holmes did not wish to see him. Or Mrs Watson. For the good of his health, apparently.

"You're wrong. Surely?" was all he could say, aware his mouth was opening and shutting like one of Mycroft's goldfish. And was instantly annoyed by the image.

"I am so sorry. He says he is exhausted, Needs total quiet and isolation….."

"OK. Fine. OK," He clenched his fists and damped down his anger. "Tell him I've been. Tell him I'll keep checking on him. Will come again and try to visit. Just - tell him."

They told him. He knew they did. But it made no difference.

So he had to depend on other people for news. And Mary kept asking, too.

There seemed to be a visitor's rota he was not a part of either. Mrs Hudson on Monday. Mycroft Tuesday and Thursday. Lestrade on Wednesday with cold case files. And often back again on Friday, That Kitty Haig person on Saturdays. Sunday seemed to be a free for all - sometimes Billy. Or Deeza or Raz, Jeanne and others he did not know. Angelo a couple of times. Mycroft again.

There was a text, which was something. Just one.

 **2.35pm: Molly says I should tell you how I am. Damage improving. Slowed recovery due to mystery infection. Do not reply to this text. SH**

Which was no help at all.

Mycroft was equally terse.

"He has some infection. Took time to identify. Weil's Disease, Ever heard of it?"

"Yes, Quite common in foreign parts. If I'd know I could have identified…..so when was he swimming in rat piss, Mycroft? What else did you miss?"

He heard Mycroft Holmes suck in an annoyed breath, and felt oddly pleased.

"Seems he went for swim in a Danish canal and another swim in a Thames marina. As I so often point out, legwork is very distasteful."

"A bugger," Watson agreed. "Good job you've had Sherlock to do that for you so often then."

"I agree he had .. unique utility."

"I wish the two of you would stop saying 'had' quite so often."

There was a brief and telling silence on the line.

"And how is your dear wife?"

Which was when John Watson put the telephone down.

o0o0o0o

"What are you doing here?"

"Mycroft told me you were home today. Mrs Hudson and I decided to be a welcoming committee. With Earl Grey and cake. Not sure why we bothered if this is the best you can do."

"I am a sociopath. You expect me to be sociable?"

Sherlock Holmes propped himself in the doorway of the sitting room of 221B, Baker Street. It looked so much like a replay of the last time he had stood in that space, in that same stance, John Watson felt dizzy with a sense of déjà vu.

And Sherlock looked almost as ill. Despite the warmth of a late September day he was huddled into his Belstaff, which did not disguise the weight loss, the pallor, the dull eyes.

"There's tea just needs pouring, Sherlock. And your favourite lemon scones. Should have realised today was a bit soon for a party. But still…."

Martha Hudson wrapped her arms around him as he stood there, took his right hand and raised it to her cheek. He drew a breath and folded himself down and around her, and for a moment she disappeared into the coat then re-emerged, flustered and laughing.

"Oh, Sherlock!" she gasped. "Welcome home. Have a scone for supper. Sleep. I'll see you in the morning. Now sit and talk to John."

She whisked away and down the stairs, simply happy to have him back. Mycroft Holmes, who had watched silently after helping his brother up the stairs, put down the suitcase and left without conversation or farewell.

The door of 221A closed softly downstairs. The heavy black outside door slammed.

Sherlock Holmes let the coat slide off his arms and turned away to hang it on it's usual peg. In his tightly buttoned charcoal suit - that was fitted, but hung on him now - he looked skeletal. Vulnerable.

"Tea and a scone? Quickly - to please Mrs Hudson. And then you go."

"To much of a cliché to say we still need to talk?"

"Yes. That is a cheap Americanism. We have nothing left to say."

John Watson took a plate, a napkin and a scone. Poured Earl Grey unadulterated into a porcelain cup. Put all by Sherlock Holmes' grey leather chair. Then repeated the process for himself.

Sat down with deliberation and watched Sherlock Holmes sigh with resignation and take the seat opposite.

"Nice. We used to sit opposite each other like this and talk all the time."

"That was then. This is now."

"And don't we know it?" Watson said with a edge of bitterness he could not disguise.

"I'm sorry. I can't help it."

"Help what?"

"Me." He hauled in a breath. Lifted the cup and drank some tea, seemingly unaware of his shaking hand. "John, I have no doubt you want an old fashioned heart to heart. To tell me how you are, how you and Mary are doing, what you both think and feel. I don't need - or want - to know any of that.

"I have just returned home from hospital. I am weak and I am tired. I am going to bed. Take some scones home with you. For Mary. And if you can face it… if I can face it…..we shall talk tomorrow instead."

He put down his empty cup, got slowly to his feet. Touched John Watson lightly on the shoulder as he passed him on the way to the bathroom. Paused.

"Tomorrow," he said.

And was gone.

Later, lying awake and back in his own room, he was still, huddled under his duvet, listening to all the sounds of Baker Street he had missed for so long. The sounds of the old house settling. Mrs Hudson's TV muttering. Cars passing. Mrs Turner's second floor tenant heading out for his nightshift.

The quiet soothed him. After the constant bright lights and bustle of the hospital, the quiet of the night time city and the familiar little sounds was familiar, almost cosy, reassuring.

Alone, and more peaceful than for a long time, he allowed himself to be lulled into sleep. And for the first time in months slept well.

Until jolted awake by the shock of something cold and metallic slammed into his forehead.

 _What? Where am….? Oh. Baker Street. Not hospital. Yes. Morning. Cold. Steel. Tubular. A gun. Oh shit. A gun. Pressed to my forehead._

He killed the lurch of fear and cursed himself for ever relaxing, ever sleeping.

For trusting the traitorous peace of being in his own bed again.

Slowly opened his eyes, trying not to move or react from fear.

"Ah. You are awake. Good morning, Mr Holmes. Ready to die?"

TO BE CONTINUED…..


	27. Chapter 27

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 27:'Amassed….'

The shock made him suck in two rapid breaths. Convulsive. Calming. Mortifying. Not daring to move in case the gun went off.

 _Control, control, control!_

The point of the muzzle was pressing in and hurting his forehead. Just as intended.

And the man holding the gun was staring at him with the most earnest concentration. Blond greying hair, styled but overlong, curling onto his collar. Square handsome face, bright blue eyes, regular features. Grey check Austin Reed suit, white shirt, Naval and Military Club tie with a gold stud.

The hand behind the worn but serviceable Webley was steady, with neatly manicured nails and a gold signet ring on the little finger.

"Kill me, then. Get it over with."

He was surprised to find his voice was perfectly level and calm. Despite everything. Was there never any respite from this ridiculous life of his?

"Not yet. Not until you know why I am going to kill you. And why I want to hear you beg me not to."

"I know why you are going to kill me. But - beg? Never going to happen."

"We'll see. Get up."

Sherlock Holmes eased himself erect when the gun barrel was lifted away, although it stayed pointing at his head. Slid off his bed. The Webley followed his movement, just far enough away to stay out of reach of a grab.

The thought of doing that passed through his mind, and he wondered if he was capable of any sort of action after two major operations and the best part of eleven weeks in hospital. A sobering and demoralising thought, having to consider the competence of the transport before anything else.

"Sitting room," said the man with the gun., gesturing in that general direction.

"I assumed so. May I offer you breakfast?"

"Stop being smart."

"Not smart at all. I only got home last night. Nothing in."

He smiled a tight little grin, and the other man smiled back without humour.

"Still trying to be clever."

"I am always clever."

"Bully for you."

He padded into the sitting room, bare footed, no dressing gown, chilled and slowed by that. Too enfeebled, too sensitive, he thought. Not yet acclimatised to real life again. Would have to rectify that, if he lived to get the chance. Sat in his usual chair with every appearance of ease and relaxation and watched the man with the gun sit down in John Watson's old chair and level the Webley at him again.

"You don't seem surprised I am here."

"I anticipated you might turn up at some point. But not quite so soon, as I have only been out of hospital eleven hours."

"Strike while the iron's hot, as they say. I have been passing your flat every evening, waiting to see when you were back, see a light. And last night I did." He stopped talking, thought for a moment.

Unimpressed by what he saw. Just looking at the frail, unshaven, tousled man before him with grey eyes and grey skin dressed only in grey pyjama bottoms and t shirt, before remarking:

"So you know who I am?"

"Of course. Dean Dixon Carr. Member of Parliament for Faulkbourne in Essex for the past eleven years." He paused while the deduction settled, then asked with false interest:. "And how are the children?"

"In prison…."

"Where you will shortly join them."

"Where you put them."

"My job."

"Your death warrant."

"Hmn."

 _Lunge, riposte, parry…brain still working, then. No chance yet to check the efficiency of the transport…and perhaps this isn't the best time or place to do so. Too much at stake. Obvious risk assessment evaluation. Forecast not good._

There was a moment of silent mutual assessment.

Sherlock Holmes could see the children in the father; the attractive features, the colouring, the brilliant bright eyes. Behind the beauty the shared misguided sense of purpose, of entitlement, of quicksilver decision. The flaw in the diamond.

"So what are you waiting for? Just shoot me. I understand why you want to."

"Because you don't want me to? Or because you think your knowledge reduces my personal level of pleasure and accomplishment?"

"I wouldn't describe shooting me that much of an accomplishment."

"Depends on your point of view."

"Indeed so."

Another silence.

"I was always going to come after you. You knew that, surely? You destroyed my kids, their careers….." he paused and pushed the pointed gun forward with additional threat and silent censure as Sherlock Holmes laughed at the word 'careers.'

"Oh, come! Drug dealing, smuggling, human trade, tax evasion, the extra titillation of strong arm stuff on the side. You call that careers?"

Dean Dixon Carr shrugged an elegant shoulder.

"They are clever and uniquely successful. They make a lot of money…"

"And ruin a lot of lives."

"Who are you to judge? And what worth are the lives of all those lower common denominator midgets they make their money from anyway?"

"Oh, do stop. Your megalomania is showing. Interesting to see it runs in the family, though."

" I am going to shoot you, Holmes. I just want you to know why. See your face when you realise I am actually going to do it. Wipe that arrogant smile off your face, you total arse. I want you to beg me not to do it. So you can die cringing and know how better people than you feel…."

"Stop your self justifying whine. I don't care what you do or how you try to justify yourself and your spawn. But I am oddly entertained that you seem unable to recognise that when you kill me you wreck your own life and career, as well as supporting your children in destroying their own."

"But who will know I killed you? Apart from you? And me?"

The hammer was instantly cocked back on the gun. Sherlock Holmes braced himself and concentrated on the bead of sweat on Dean Dixon Carr's forehead.

As he did so the vague sounds travelling up the stairs from the ground floor increased. Perhaps only he had heard them at all, recognised them; soft footsteps going to the front door and back, gentle bustling around. Doors opening and closing. Then more steady soft steps climbing the seventeen stairs.

A tiny rap on the door, a sing-song 'Ooo-Hoo!' and there in the doorway was Mrs Hudson, old fashioned floral wrap-around pinny over denim jeans, striped Breton top and orange trainers, carrying a tea tray.

"Morning, Sherlock. Heard you moving about. So early! Stuck into early rising hospital timetables still? Oh!"

She paused halfway into the room.

"Oh! Sorry! I didn't realise you were with a client…!"

She smiled apologetically, beamed at her tenant and his guest. Who had whipped the Webley under a cushion: but was still pointing the business end at the consulting detective, only now out of the clear view of anyone other than Sherlock Holmes.

"So early to be working, Sherlock! Some things never change!" She put the tea tray carefully down on the dining table behind them. "I'll get another cup. 'Scuse me…"

And turned on her heel and was gone.

"Who….was that?" demanded the startled gunman.

"My housekeeper. Landlady. Something or other. Tea every morning, often with toast. You should have done your homework. She should have appeared as a factor in your plan."

"Homework? Charles simply told me where you…." he stopped. But the damage was done.

"So you are an ally of dear Mr Magnussen? As well as your children? Thank you for confirming that."

The gun reappeared from under the cushion. Wobbled in the hand.

"Go on then!" Sherlock Holmes grasped the arms of his chair, leant forward. "Go on! Do it! Shoot me now! Before she comes back. Then you won't have to shoot her, too. Leg it down the fire escape. You'll get away clear. She is an old lady. Won't chase you. Probably couldn't even describe you to the police…"

Dean Dixon Carr sprang to his feet, gun levelled. Time froze and stopped dead.

 _Convenient analogy, that. Too appropriate to be funny. Offensive action? Lunge forward and go for his throat? His gun hand? If I can summon speed and strength? Or perhaps defensive action? Kick backwards, drop down, tumble a backwards roll complete with chair and hope it proves protection from the shot? Which way…..?_

The hesitation proved fatal. Mrs Hudson reappeared in the doorway with another porcelain cup and saucer and a new, larger teapot. And Dean Dixon Carr sat back down, manners and the desire not to have a witness to the action he planned winning out over naked menace. The gun still hidden from Mrs Hudson's eyes by the chair arm.

"Here we are! That's better. Oh! And I found a man with a parcel delivery for you at the front door, Sherlock."

Dean Dixon Carr and Sherlock Holmes looked around a smiling Martha Hudson. To see a short and average looking man in jeans and black donkey jacket standing behind her, looking serious and awkwardly holding a cardboard box.

Dixon Carr muttered something under his breath about how '….this place is like Piccadilly Circus…..' but Sherlock Holmes simply beamed with genuine amusement and good nature.

"Oh, hello! A parcel for me? The Vatican Cameos delivery I have been expecting, is it?"

The delivery man nodded briefly.

"Vatican Cameos, guv? Yeah. No problem."

The delivery man stepped clear of Mrs Hudson, moving her gently to the side with one hand as the other came out of the opened end of the box, which dropped unheeded to the floor. And the hand that emerged was holding a Sig Sauer pistol.

"Drop the gun. Or I'll drop you."

John Watson assumed the British Army shooting stance, feet a shoulder width apart, calmly focussed on his target, eyes following his rising hand and arm. The barrel of the Sig forming a true and unwavering line to Dean Dixon Carr's heart.

But the other man's reactions were as fast. He was back on his feet, the cushion disgarded, braced with emotional resolution and his own gun levelled in return upon John Watson.

"I know what I am doing, Mr Delivery Man. Territorial Army and Parliamentary shooting club."

"Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," returned John Watson, voice placid and unhurried. "Platoon Small Arms Champion. I never miss."

"Let's take this calmly," Sherlock Holmes spoke soothingly from his chair. "If you would both like to lower your guns, gentlemen…" But nothing happened. "I think you should really admit you have lost your earlier advantage, Mr Dixon Carr."

"I came here to shoot you. And shoot you I will. Despite your delivery man. Is this your bodyguard, Holmes?. An old soldier and even older domestic servant? With you as weak as a kitten? No competition, is it?"

"Oooh, it would be SO much better for you if you didn't say things like that." John Watson drew the hammer back on the Sig with a click that echoed around the room. "Put down your weapon."

"I'll shoot Holmes first, then I'll shoot you. I'm not an idiot. If you really are a professional you'll wing me at worst. But Sherlock Holmes will still be dead." He smiled. "I think that end result is worth the risk. And who will believe a mere delivery man - a probably illegally tooled up delivery man - against a Member of Parliament and much respected innocent visitor seeking the assistance of the great Sherlock Holmes?"

"Mexican stand-offs never end well….." Sherlock Holmes offered.

 _Hold the thin red line John. What can I do? How can I leave this to you?_ _This is my danger. My risk. My death. Not yours. Not yours to risk. Nothing to do with you. And why are you even here?_

"The gun is legally owned and in fact registered at this building. I am Sherlock Holmes's friend and colleague Captain John Watson.. I - we - have impeccable history, and our version of events will indeed be believed. But what about you?"

The voice remained calm, the target still fixed.

Dean Dixon Carr's forefinger tensed on the trigger of the Webley. Sherlock Holmes moved slightly in his chair, ready to dive if he could, and push John Watson away from harm.

But in that very second Dean Dixon Carr jerked and screamed and convulsed to one side.

And yet John Watson's gun had not spoken. Although hot liquid flew and sprayed and splattered, it was not blood. The arc of it caught both armchairs, the fire hearth, Sherlock Holmes' face. Hot and shocking.

John Watson stood fast. Eyes and gun barrel moving in line with the target as Dean Dixon Carr writhed on the hearth rug, screaming with shock and pain. And instantly Sherlock Holmes fell to his knees, wrenched the gun from his opponent's right hand, put his foot hard on the back of Dean Dixon Carr's neck and ground his face into the old Turkish carpet. And it was simple then to pinion his arms behind him.

"Mrs Hudson, might you pass me the handcuffs you will find in the salad compartment of the fridge?" he asked.

She scurried away, and in seconds was back. Wringing her hands and looking worried as the rings of steel snapped closed.

"Did I do the right thing?" she asked urgently. "Was that all right, Sherlock? Only you had all forgotten about me being here. And I wasn't certain…..?"

"Martha Hudson, if anyone ever wants to offer you a position as bodyguard, I shall be only too happy to write you a reference. But I would really - _really_ \- prefer you stay here looking after me!" he said.

He was laughing weakly now, and so was she. But he was the one holding down the hysteria. She hugged him, as he knelt there on the carpet, holding Dean Dixon Carr down. And he clumsily hugged her back.

"I hope no-one else insults you by describing you as an old lady, Mrs H," John Watson remarked, his gun lowered now, but still covering the would be assassin. "Because I would be terrified to see what you did then!"

She turned and laughed with him as well. Eyes sparkling. For a moment both her boys saw the young girl that still inhabited the heart of that tiny fragile frame.

And then she bent down and picked up the remains of the Brown Betty teapot she had thrown at the Member of Parliament. "Well, you get used to thinking on your feet living here….."she mused almost to herself. "And I daresay the tea will revive the carpet…."

"I'll get you a new teapot," promised Sherlock Holmes. "The least I can do."

"Hmn. You still owe me a new tea towel young man; to replace the one that went to hospital with that handsome Danish person."

"I will buy you a kitchen full," he promised.

Reached for his phone and pressed a speed dial number.

"Good morning, Lestrade. Delighted you are up and about so early. Sorry to inconvenience you, but could you send some of your least irritating officers to 221B to apprehend an attempted murderer? Yes, attempted to murder me. Yes, thank you, I do know I have been home for less than twelve hours….."

He closed the phone, put it back down, and picked up the Webley, checking the magazine.

"OK, John. You can stand down. I have him covered."

John Watson breathed deeply, lifted his arm, drew the pistol back and released the hammer, set the safety catch. Visibly relaxed his shoulders and drew a breath. Slotted the Sig into the back of his belt and stepped to one side, the military bearing relaxing.

"You OK?" he asked.

Sherlock Holmes tilted his head to look at his friend. The thought passed through his mind that he might faint and he pushed it back with something between despair and anger.

"I've been better," he said. And they waited, all four of them, for the arrival of the police cars with their flashing blue lights.

o0o0o0o

He had known this was coming. Or something like it. Known it from the morning Kitty Haig appeared in his side ward for yet another interview. At Magnussen's bidding. He was tired, ill, disorientated, and yet Magnussen's drive and sense of purpose remained intent and relentless.

And all because Mary Watson had given the Dane all the ammunition and leverage he needed to press down harder on the pedal. Damn her eyes.

Talk to my newspaper or else I claim Mary Watson, that interview expectation said. Talk to my newspaper now or else I lean on John Watson. Do what I bid you to do without even asking or I target your brother. Give yourself to me with every demand I make so I can do whatever I want…the message could not be any clearer.

With or without Lady Smallwood as client or intermediary, Magnussen was still circling his prey. But even closer now. Thanks to Mary Watson.

This, Sherlock realised, was a situation that was never going to go away. He had told the Sondersuns no-one was ever rid of blackmail until they were rid of the blackmailer. And it was true. So now the net of the blackmailer was closing in further.

With a sense of utter exhaustion and total defeat, he had given his interview to Kitty. An interview he knew Magnussen could have written himself…without even giving an interview to do so. Because he had been there too.

Magnussen could have written his own first hand account, put Sherlock's name to it - and again alter whatever Kitty wrote now without mercy, whether or not it said exactly what he wanted to hear. But he still wanted Sherlock involved when he was at his weakest - because he wanted Sherlock to recognise, without any possibility of doubt - who had the upper hand.

Kitty, uncomfortable but unknowing, had conducted her interview and it could have been so much worse. Sherlock could not recall a single word he had said. But it didn't matter. The main thing had been her whispered - "I've done it; applied for that new job…." and he had smiled, nodded weakly in approval, and finally sent her away.

Even more important now that John Watson stayed close to his wife, he realised So she could protect him from harm. Guard his open and uncomplicated heart with her gun and her cynical turn of mind. Be the intermediary, the buffer, the warning instinct. Use her assassin's reactions. Watch his back. Do what he, the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, could not have done from a hospital bed.

Could not do now because of weakness of body and mind. From the hospital bed she herself had put him into. Oh, the irony of it all. .

So in defence - in the defence of them all - he had kept John Watson - and John Watson's wife - safely at arm's length. Encouraged them in their quiet new life of work routine and domesticity. And meanwhile had watched the world go by from his hospital window, impatient and frustrated and deeply on edge.

Damage from the original shooting had been exacerbated by his escape from hospital. The move had been calculated as a damage limitation exercise for their lives - not to limit his own physical damage, but to limit the effects his total ignorance thus far of the entire situation would endanger John Watson.

So he had escaped from hospital simply so John would know the score. Not learn what was happening from the evidence of Sherlock Holmes, whose motives he would doubt, but as truth from the mouth of his own wife. Who would then have no choice but to protect him as well as herself in the matter of the interference and influence of Charles Augustus Magnussen.

The delay in his recovery was the unexpected complication of leptospiridosis, better known as the relatively rare Weil's Disease, a complication he had suffered with impatience and despair, something he had neither time nor inclination to endure while it delayed his return to what he considered his work and his real life.

The damage to his lungs from the shooting tended towards bleeding anyway, coughing up blood. This had been worrying enough, but originally put down to a slowed healing process after the shooting and the damaging escape from hospital; a few desperate hours that added weeks to the process.

The fever aches were thought to be post operative pneumonia, the blood hacking into tissues and the lack of appetite, the fever and general malaise all first and naturally considered typical symptoms of a man who had been shot through the lungs.

Easy bruising was something he tended towards anyway, but the low blood platelet counts were a puzzle for a time once reaction to blood transfusion was discounted.. And it was only when these symptoms did not clear but worsened and he developed jaundice was when something other, something more, was first suspected.

Scans and tests and X rays and bloodwork followed. The mystery illness weakened the transport further, recovery and diagnosis were delayed. Mycroft worried and stopped communicating with the others. Sherlock himself was past caring.

More searching and unusual tests. Infectious disease experts were consulted, who questioned, poked and prodded an increasingly uncooperative and miserable patient.

Interviews about contacts with birds and ticks and cats and goats and any manner of animals followed. Intrusive questions about sexual history - and a polite refusal to believe there was no sexual history; especially bearing in mind recent newspaper coverage, unmentioned yet very present in medical minds. Queries about foreign travel that an overnight visit to Copenhagen did not answer.

Until the day one of the transport mechanics had tentatively asked, in an expecting-the-answer-no voice, if he had ever been swimming in a canal or dirty water within the past two or three weeks.

And then he thought back - registered the fight and the plunge into the Copenhagen canal, the unexpected flurry and swim and battle in the dock marine off the Thames. And he had had to admit that yes - yes, he had.

And then focus was made, antibiotics, benzyl penicillin and doxycyline were introduced; words words, words - Sherlock did not care what they were or how they were used as long as they worked.

So slowly but painfully surely the fatigue and the pain began to lift, and the damage and it's complications were finally pushed back and away.

He had never left himself behind throughout it all. The machine that was Sherlock Holmes was still running throughout his captivity, although angry and depressed and frustrated. His visitors did their best to try to amuse and entertain - and he sorted a few of Lestrade's cold cases, almost effortlessly from his bed - but his heart was not in it, or in being a good patient.

His mind was still on Magnusson - whatever Mycroft and Lady Smallwood said.

o0o0o0o

On one of his final days in that private side ward he had become so sick of, he had taken his rolling drip stand for a walk to one of the visitor orientated restaurants and indulged himself in a proper meal of pasta with olives and beef and tomato sauce. It was unimaginatively called The Ristorante but provided good plain mass catering. It was a humdrum haven of normality that if he had been back in the real world he would have disdained. And he recognised that anomaly as a symptom of his current weakness and boredom.

Ensconced quietly in his Mind Palace, only physically inhabiting a space he preferred to think of as the known and intimate surroundings of Speedy's next door to 221B, and sitting all alone in a corner, he though he was hallucinating when a tall slim man with sandy beard and rimless spectacles sat quietly down in front of him.

"I've been thinking about you," Sherlock Holmes said easily as an extension of his thoughts, unsurprised because he had been puzzling over Magnussen at that very moment. And was still mostly in his Mind Palace.

"I've been thinking about you," Magnussen returned, his voice low and intimate, his eyes seeking Sherlock's with unusual softness.

"Really?" he allowed the genuine surprise and some awareness of the flattery into his voice.

 _Watch that! Starved of company and stimulus; but not anyone will do! Not like this!_

A stab of fear translated itself into a gasping stab of pain. He turned and rapidly pressed the button on the morphine release three times as Magnussen watched with fascination and counted the number.

"I want to see Appledore," he heard the sound coming out of his mouth and could do nothing to stop it. But he had been thinking about Appledore, puzzling about it, and the secrets it held. "Where you keep all the secrets, all the files, everything you've got on everyone. I want you to invite me."

Magnussen watched him like a cat; entertained, amused, oddly tolerant. They already had Appledore as a promised delight between them. And it was clearly in the mind of Sherlock Holmes as much as in the mind of Magnussen. Humouring the invalid, indeed.

With morphine fast and fresh in his system, Sherlock registered all that as if from a long way off.

 _Oh - who cared - if it worked?_

"What makes you think I'd be so careless?" asked Magnussen gently, humouring their mutual assignation Actually humouring him. Sherlock resisted a desire to laugh. Could the agony and the planning and the vulnerability all have been avoided if everything really could have been achieved as easily by just asking?

 _Without all the rest? All the angst and the agony and the pain? Really? Who did Magnussen think he was trying to fool?_

"Oh, I think you're a lot more careless than you let on," he replied

 _Did I just say that? Coquettish? ME?_

"Am I?" Magnussen purred softly, leaning forwards, closer. Sherlock leaned forwards too, and they locked eyes.

"It's the dead eyed stare that gives it away," he challenged, almost conversationally. "Except it's not dead eyes, is it?"

He reached for Magnussen's face very slowly. Magnussen read the intent, but did not pull back as Sherlock gently removed the glasses from Magnussen's face, making the man look younger, almost vulnerable. It was an oddly intimate and permitted power, and Sherlock understood that.

So Magnussen actually let him do it. Looked unemotionally at his glasses in Sherlock's hands, then up into Sherlock's face.

"You're reading….." Sherlock muttered, thinking aloud without even realising. Smiling slightly, lost in the Mind Palace, looking down at the glasses. Calculating

"Portable Appledore," he mused, "How does it work? Built in flash drive? 4G wireless?"

Magnussen did not reply, just watched with a tolerant half smile on his face as Sherlock put the glasses on, raising his head to look through them .After a moment he frowned, turning his head, lowering it, thinking.

Took off the glasses slowly, blinking as if dazed, confused. Looked down at them, turning them in his hands. Brain not working at full speed.

 _Calculate. Think! Beware of obsessing. Of making the theory fit the facts. But if not that - then what?_

"They're just ordinary spectacles." Flatly. Holding down the bitterness of the disappointment. At the failure of thought.

"Yes - they are." Magnussen's voice was tolerant, slightly amused.

Sherlock grimaced, still looking down at the glasses. And all the time Magnussen looked at him.

Finally the Dane lowered his head and smiled a secret smile. Reached across and into the pasta, picking around until his finger and thumb emerged with a black olive.

"You underestimate me, Mr Holmes."

Suddenly exhausted as well as perplexed, Sherlock Holmes fell back into his chair, still looking at the plain ordinary spectacles in disbelief. Theory confounded.

 _How? What? Don't get it. The only theory that works, supports knowing all that instant knowing…._

Magnussen smiled properly then, popped the olive into his mouth, licked the finger and thumb that had held it, then washed them in Sherlock's glass of water.

It might have had some empowering effect if Sherlock had noticed, but the consulting detective was still looking down at the spectacles as if his batteries had run down.

Magnussen deliberately flicked the water from his fingers onto the remains of the pasta on Sherlock's plate, and with his other hand reclaimed the spectacles and put them back on.

Sherlock seemed not to have noticed, hands still arched as if holding the arms of the spectacles, looking down, looking shocked.

"Impress me then. Show me Appledore." The iron was in his soul, just disguised by the dreamy, morphine hazed voice.

Magnussen, chewing his olive, responded quickly: "Everything is available for a price."

Sherlock finally lifted his eyes to Magnussen's. He knew that, his expression said.

"Are you making me an offer?" The Dane's tone was almost a challenge.

"A Christmas present."

Lips twitched. A Christmas present? In September?

"And what are you giving me for Christmas, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock's smile was perfect, clear, candid and angelic, and their eyes met.

"My brother," he answered with the simplest and purest sincerity.

Magnussen blinked hard. Twice.

"Are you sure?"

"Oh yes, But you will have to be patient. Until I am out of hospital and the time is right. That's going to be Christmas. When we are together. And then you can have everything you want. All of it. But you have to be patient."

o0o0o0o

A combination of visitors had given him the idea originally.

He had banned the parents from hospital visiting: he and Mycroft had managed to avoid all their appeals to visit with a rare show of unity.

They want to come up and see you. Us," Mycroft had explained.

"Too late for them to be loving parents. Can't face it."

"We ought, perhaps…do…something?" Mycroft's responsibility as the elder son was a burden he rarely elected to carry. "Should we offer a Christmas visit? As diplomatic delaying gesture? They would like that. Fill the house, like they used to?"

"What? The two of us? Fill the house?" Sherlock's tone was scathing. Mycroft had merely shrugged, mind elsewhere.

"Anyone else we might invite? Deflect attention? Who would otherwise be alone at Christmas?"

But he had not thought of the Watsons. Not then.

o0o0o0o

Early in the recovery process - before the Weil's Disease had even been suspected - Mycroft had called by with mail and newspapers on his way back to work after a luncheon meeting in the city when a precise military man and a taller figure in three piece suit and sling appeared quietly in the doorway.

"We must stop meeting in hospitals over gunshot wounds," Sherlock Holmes said in greeting. "People will talk. It may become a habit."

Fredrick Sondersun and Piet Bruhl had stepped lightly into the room.

"Yes….." Fredrick had replied. "People will talk."

"They will talk anyway," commented Piet tartly. Then laughed and greeted both the Holmes brothers with polite handshakes and the murmured pleasantries of civilised men.

"We go home today. Now this invalid at least is recovering," Piet explained.

"But then we found we had another invalid to visit. Forgot the grapes, though," added Fredrik. "Sorry."

They discussed the wedding, the arrangements, Ari and Ellie, Fredrik's convalesence.

"We have a little island in a sea bay. It was great grandfather's - he was a fisherman. So now the family have the house and the island to visit, our place of refuge, of peace and quiet. I will recover there, in that quiet. You must visit sometime, Sherlock. Any time."

And they had gone. But the thought had been planted.

o0o0o0o

And now all those thoughts raced through the mind of Sherlock Holmes as he weakly allowed John Watson to take charge of the business of handing Dean Dixon Carr and his gun over to the police, while statements were make and noted, police and failed assassin seen off the premises. Sally Donovan had been swift and efficient. But for once had not made a single sharp comment in the process.

Perhaps she recognised the physical exhaustion, the mental weakness and the numbing sense of anticlimax in him. Perhaps she had still not recovered from the shock of seeing the freak in hospital and so ill. Whatever the reason he was grateful for her rare discretion.

The realisation that he so easily could have died, so soon after leaving hospital, had been a blow. Disorientating. Demoralising.. The shock of realising that he had had neither the physical strength nor the resolve to save his own life or anyone else's that morning, and had had to leave that to John Watson and Martha Hudson, was humiliation and a serious blow to his confidence.

Beyond giving his statement, Sherlock Holmes was suddenly and simply not there for Sally Donovan to address

He had turned away from her in the middle of their conversation to take his telephone from his pocket, and as such anti-social behaviour was normal from Sherlock Holmes, the detective sergeant had just shaken her head and moved onto other things with other people. Namely John Watson.

It was only later she realised he had absented himself totally from the proceedings at that point and had then, also totally untypically, left everything to the doctor.

"I think Sally must be mellowing in her old age," John Watson bounced back up the stairs later. Peace had returned to 221B with Dixon Carr on the way to police custody with paperwork completed, details given. For Watson there was the sense of a good job done and being positively energised and charged with adrenaline in a way that had not happened for a long time. "Almost pleasant…."

The consulting detective was not in the sitting room where Watson had expected to find him. A glance into the bedroom found Sherlock now dressed in his charcoal Spencer Hart suit with dove grey shirt, standing by his bed, on which lay a large suitcase. In one hand, four folded shirts.

"Off somewhere?" Watson asked lightly, masking his surprise. Then, after consideration: "I thought you were convalescing at home. Something changed your mind?"

He watched Sherlock Holmes turn away to reach for a handful of underwear, and with his back turned, briefly murmur: "You."

Speechless at that reply, he could only look on, and with some disbelief, as the underwear went into the case. Waited for the remainder of an explanation that did not arrive.

"Come again?" he enquired finally.

Sherlock Holmes stilled, holding two sweaters his friend had never seen before.

"You," he repeated.

"It's my fault?"

"Yes."

The sweaters went into the case. Two suit bags.

"Want to run that past me so I understand?"

Sherlock Holmes finally stilled. Looked up.

"You saved my life this morning. You and Mrs Hudson. We could all have been dead." He paused for breath. "If I had not been here there would have been no danger. I will not let that happen again."

John Watson heard the level, rationally spoken words, but also observed long thin hands still and grip the edge of the suitcase. "So I am going away."

"Another two years?" The doctor felt his heart lurch in his chest, heard the hopeless cynicism in his reply. Cursed his transparency..

The consulting detective glanced across at his friend's face, frowned at whatever he saw there, and looked away.

"Not this time. Just until I am ….recovered."

"Where are you going?"

"Away." he shrugged as if disinterested. "Abroad."

"Don't run away from me, Sherlock."

"I'm not. This is tactical withdrawal. Why would I run away?" The consulting detective looked up sharply, as if shocked.

A hollow, bitter laugh in response.. "My wife shot you."

"That was not personal. She thought she had no alternative. Then she called an ambulance and saved my life. I thought you both understood I bear no grudge?"

What he said was true enough. But he was being economical with the truth behind that statement. About Magnussen; about the risk.

He turned back to his packing

"This isn't right. You don't run from anything or anyone. What aren't you telling me?" John Watson's voice was low, riven with emotion and the haunted potential of loss about to be repeated.

Sherlock paused and looked down, face unreadable at that angle.

"Nothing. This is simply logical response to the situation. "

That telltale little frown was between his eyes again. Eyes hollow and dark with something Watson recognised but could not identify as his head lifted.

"Then make that decision logically, Sherlock. Change your mind and stay here. Let me and Mary look after you. Get you better. We owe you that. And who better qualified than us to do it?"

Sherlock Holmes froze.

"I can't do that. Can't let you." The voice was so hard and stark his friend actually flinched.

"Christ, Sherlock! Do you hate us that much?"

Sherlock Holmes put his hands behind him and rocked back against the chest of drawers there for support. It made him seem taller, more erect. Remote.

"How can you….." he began, faltered. Started again. "You saved my life when I had known you for barely a day. You killed a man. For me. No-one has ever…." he bit something back. "I owed you from that day on. I have always owed you, and you have always saved me. Again and again. Well, it's my turn now, John. To repay. I made a vow. I told you. Always there for you. Always….."

He shook his head, lifted it in challenge. That typical mercurial change of mood.

"What are you doing here, anyway?"

 _Deflection. Defence. Determination. Hold the line._

"I said I would come. Early I know, but I'm due at work later."

"Early turned out good, as it happened."

The twisted smile reassured John Watson not at all.

"Don't go, Sherlock."

"Sorry. Must."

"I don't understand this. I lose you for two years. My best man - my best friend. You come back. Then all you do is avoid me; lock me out. And now you're running away from me again."

"No."

"Running away." If he repeated the phrase enough, he thought, flayed Sherlock with it as an accusation of cowardice enough, he could perhaps, somehow, belittle him into changing his mind. "And I have never known you run from danger."

"This is different."

"Then explain it to me."

He shook his head. Certain the mahogany chest was all that was holding him upright now.

"I am still unwell. Weak. Not myself."

"Precisely why you need us to care for you….."

"NO!" the shout took and emptied all his energy and he staggered forward, the tears of the newly convalescent not far from falling. John Watson reached out without conscious thought and held him up.

"Mary made me like this. So I can't let her near me. And I can't be near you. To keep you out of harm's way!"

"I don't understand."

Sherlock Holmes reached up in a paroxysm of frustration and tried to tear his former assistant's hands from his shoulders; Watson refused to let go and there was a brief struggle the younger man had neither the strength nor the appetite for.

Head bowed, shoulders bent, struggling for breath, he stopped fighting and simply hung for a moment of appalled and appalling weakness between Watson's hands. He looked as empty as his voice sounded. Except there was now an edge of tears in the voice that chilled Watson to the bone.

"If I am not here then you will be safe. Why won't you understand?" A little edge of hysteria rose, was bit back. " Stay close to Mary. Let her protect you. I have brokered a deal that will keep you both safe for now. Until I am well again. Then I will neutralise the danger."

"Magussen? Is it Magnussen you are talking about?"

"Who else?"

"I don't get it. This isn't like you."

He shook his head, repeated himself.

"Mary knows how dangerous Magnussen is. She will protect you. Until I return and can do that again."

"But he's just a newspaperman, Sherlock - a businessman. Not a major criminal. What do you have against him?"

The low bitter laugh was just as disturbing.

"I'm feeble. Obsessing. Humour me." The desperate, self deprecating reply was almost as terrifying. Watson resisted a temptation to shake him.

"There's more to it than that. I know you too well."

"You want truth, now? Even though you won't like it?"

"What I don't like is seeing you like this."

"Too bad," He flailed away and tried to escape the hands again. Again Watson refused to release him. Despite the new and never before heard pleading tone. "John! Please, please stop. Just do as I ask. For Mary. For me."

"Just tell me Sherlock! Before I break your bloody neck!"

Sherlock Holmes finally looked up then, glazed grey eyes meeting alert speedwell blue ones. The grey eyes were haunted, desperate, brimming with tears.

"Do that, then. But be ready to laugh first."

He looked away sharply, and Watson could feel something like shame coming off him in waves. And was now frightened himself at what he was going to hear. There was a pause; several heartbeats, as courage gathered itself.

"I am frightened." he paused and gave an empty, reactive laugh. "Go on, then - laugh now At the thought of Sherlock Holmes being frightened - terrified - of something. So laugh. Or break my neck. Either make it easier for me….."

John Watson shook him then. Shook him hard, in frustration and anger, like a terrier with a rat. Reaction, punishment, striving for proper response. But Sherlock did not respond. Did not resist, fight back, turn away. Nor did he laugh, or say it had all been a joke, a lie of deflection.

"I don't believe you. You're being a drama queen. Again!"

"I wish!" For a second his sense of irony choked him. "Oh, God help me. I can't….do….this."

For a moment they both froze . Both their bodies and brains hanging in air, suspended in the moment.

Watson did not know what to do for the best. He had never seen Sherlock Holmes like this. He had seen his friend injured and ill. He had seen him faking tears and emotion for a case. But he had never seen the younger man ill and weak and exposed like this. Being merely human.

Acting on pure instinct now, he tightened his grip and drew the taller man closer as he felt a wave of emotion and weakness pass through the painfully frail body. Pulled him into a hug that was all caring and compassion.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I've not been the friend you have needed. Not for a long time But I am back again now. I will always owe you my life and my sanity. I owe you more than you think you owe me, So much more. And although I never say it and wouldn't really know how to, I do love you, you total arse.

"So now just tell me - what I can do to help?"

Silence. And as he waited, all senses on edge, wondering how he had ever dared say what he just had, wondering what to do next, what he would dare do to try and make this horror better, he felt something fall onto his hands before Sherlock Holmes snatched his head away.

Watson registered tears - real, actual, Sherlock Holmes tears - falling without fuss or for effect. And he thought his heart broke then.

"Nothing. Thank you."

The voice was still the same controlled baritone as always. But Watson could not see the face. Could only hear the hard sniffs pulling the tears back.

"Why are you frightened?"

He had just, with difficulty, accepted that fear could exist within Sherlock Holmes, and now he fought to keep his voice level and so very calm.

Even though a part of him recognised that the consulting detective, the man who was frightened of nothing - who had faced down snipers and a Semtex bomb vest, had risked leaping off a roof, had spent two years away facing dangers and fighting them all alone - was truly frightened of something now - right now.

And after all that had gone on before - it had to be something bad.

"Sherlock? Tell me?"

He bent and leaned away a little, trying to see and read the face. The three word mumble was so very quiet: and Watson dared not be sure he had heard it correctly.

"What was that?"

"He raped me!"

The shout this time made Watson rear backwards, and this time the consulting detective took the opportunity to rip himself away from the supporting hands. Dived for the chest of drawers, dragged items out almost at random and began feverishly packing again.

"Stop, Sherlock. Explain. Talk to me!"

"Nothing else to say. Nothing to add. So laugh now."

"Why the f…..why should I laugh? Rape is an horrendous thing for anyone to suffer. Especially…." he forced words past his teeth. "…someone like you."

"Indeed. Sherlock Holmes does not get emotional. Sherlock Holmes does not feel fear. Sherlock Holmes is not moved by emotion or sex or by being touched. Yet Sherlock Holmes has been destroyed by something so horrible and banal, he….." he flung a wash bag into the case as if it was a hand grenade. As if it exploded and destroyed that conversation. Turned to John Watson as if heading into battle.

"What are you still doing here? How can you bear to be in the same room? To even look at me?"

"Stop it! You know - you must know - this changes nothing."

"You say that now. But the knowledge will eat at you. Diminish your opinion of me. Don't want…." He shook his head. "No. That's normal. Won't blame you for that. Not at all."

Watson put out a hand to touch an arm, and that hand was thrown off with such vehemence the doctor was almost flung into a corner.

"I am going away. Can't stay - too much of a target. Too many people could be sucked in. You. I cannot have you hurt. Do you understand me?

Suddenly the words were running away, blocking out interruption. But John Watson broke through that with one sharp word.

"Clarify."

"When Mary shot me instead of Magnussen she was trying to protect you. She made a mistake. If she had risked all and killed Magnussen we would have no problems now. By letting him see her shoot me - and not silence him as she planned - she gave him even stronger grounds to blackmail her with. Do you understand now?"

"Oh God. Yes. I do." Watson took a horrified step back, head reeling.

Plain speaking. He had asked Sherlock Holmes for truth, and finally Sherlock Holmes had given it to him.

"This is madness. I am a soldier. I know how to kill people, and I do….."

"And yet. And yet you are the weakest link in the row of dominoes Magnussen has set up to fall. Because you are an honest, caring, loving individual who heals people. Not twisted and ruthless and horrible like your wife and myself. Which is why we ….both of us…..love you."

Sherlock Holmes' voice came to a sudden stop. And for one telling, blinding, naked second, the eyes of two brave and determined men met and held and spoke without words to each others soul.

Sherlock Holmes raised his chin and defied John Watson to speak. John Watson found his throat was too restricted to even breath.

"So we will protect you. And by protecting you protect ourselves."

"What can I do?"

"Live your life. Stay close to Mary. Stay away from me." he sighed. "When I come back, when I am myself again, I shall sort this. If I try now I shall fail. I cannot afford to fail. None of us can afford for me to fail."

He leant on the almost full case and looked into the eyes of his friend.

John Watson, who now felt as if he had been run over by a truck, put out a hand again to grasp an arm. The arm pulled away.

"Don't try to contact me, or to find me. If you need something, contact Mycroft and he will get word to me. You need to support the impression I have been giving that we were friends and colleagues who have drifted apart due to your marriage and your new life choices."

"But that's not true, Sherlock. Is it?"

"It should be. With what you now know about me I should disgust you. And I will, in the end. I disgust myself. The things I have done to play this game, to position myself to win. But win I shall. So do the decent thing, John. Turn your back on me." He looked up with challenge in his eyes, and a steely Sherlock Holmes resolve." It's what I want."

He closed the lid of the suitcase and straightened his jacket.

"Now leave. You mustn't be late for work."

John Watson stepped back in something like shock. Looked at the collected and contained consulting detective in front of him again. Wondered he would ever understand, or bottom the courage, of the man before him.

"Shall I see you again? And when?"

"Probably. But never again would be best in the circumstances. Thank you, John."

And he was dismissed.

Perplexed, stricken, wrong footed, he turned to leave. He had no choice.

There was no word of farewell he could think of that would be adequate.

"Good luck," he said as he turned away. "Get well soon."

But by then Sherlock Holmes had opened his wardrobe door, and was almost totally concealed from view. And did not reply.

TO BE CONTINUED….

 **Author's Notes:**

Faulkbourne is the name of a genuine deserted village site in Essex. It is not a parliamentary constituency, nor has it existed for many years. No inference is being made against anyone with a connection to Faulkbourne!

A Brown Betty is the affectionate nickname for the traditional dark brown glazed fat bellied tea pot that has been in common use in England for over 200 years. Before tea bags, every family would possess at least one, from single cup versions to large sizes almost impossible to lift to cater for a dozen people. Mrs Hudson's would be the standard size, to handle six small or four large cupfuls.

Deepest thanks again to **Kate221B** for the inspiration and complication of adding Weil's Disease to the mix when something was needed to keep Sherlock in hospital for longer, as per the original script. A script which did not give any reason for such a long hospital stay made clear in script!


	28. Chapter 28

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 28: 'These are the things….'

Sherlock Holmes sat in the back of the taxi and wrapped his hands around the warming mug of coffee Davy Gallagher handed him. Steam curled lazily from the surface as he sipped and pulled a face.

"Black as hell and sweeter than sex. That's how the wife makes my coffee," the cabbie said cheerfully, pouring some for himself into the vacuum flask lid. "That'll pick you up and put some lead in your pencil, mate."

The detective flickered a distracted smile.

"No uppers for me, then? Could do with some right now."

"Now, you know very well I gave up on all that sort of stuff years back when we both got straight. Well, straightish, as far as you were concerned." The stocky redhead in the hinterland of his early forties nodded thoughtfully. "Drink yer coffee. It'll perk you up."

He turned round to look forward and attend to his own drink.

For the past five hours he had been ferrying Sherlock Holmes around London, and he had been promised this would be the last stop before delivering him to Heathrow.

But Sherlock had somehow run out of energy and puttered to a stop. And from the look of him the cabbie did not think it a good idea to point out they were parked on double yellow lines and could only stay there until a traffic warden appeared from round the corner and moved them on.

Opal eyes watched him through the rear view mirror and read Davy Gallagher's thoughts. He would gather himself together in a minute, Sherlock Holmes told himself. Go and do this last thing. After he had drunk the coffee. In a minute.

o0o0o0o

John Philip Stanley, Lord Smallwood, had pushed his plate of risotto alla Milanese away and looked at the man sitting opposite him across the walnut Georgian dining table.

"Eat," he said calmly. And watched Sherlock Holmes do as he was told, slowly and awkwardly as if out of practise.

"Elizabeth paid you off. You did what you said you would do. You stopped Magnussen, you and young Ellie Sondersun altered history between you. You defied the man. And you saved us."

"It's not over."

"Yes it is. Listen to me, William. It is over. Stop being a dog with a bone. Put it down. Bury the bloody thing under a flowerbed."

"Because everything is coming up roses?"

"Being cute now?"

"Sorry, Jack."

He paused while George Bradshaw, attentive but impassive, poured him a glass of sparkling water.

Sherlock Holmes had stood at the bay window of 221B and watched John Watson stride away from the house, all military bearing and determination, and had confirmed his own decision to walk away from his life by lifting his phone and booking an airline ticket for the regular teatime flight. And then he phoned Davy Gallagher to book his cab for the day.

Because before he flew away - now he was packed, now he was ready to go and was committed - he had a lot to do. Places to go, people to see, plans to put into action. A holding pattern to establish.

His first destination was Hampstead.

"Is either the master or mistress at home, George?" he enquired into the intercom at the gates.

"Lady Smallwood is at the office. Lord Smallwood is here. May I ask if he will see you?"

He not only saw him, but offered lunch. And they shared the simple risotto because Jack Smallwood appreciated the company and the visitor realised he had not eaten since leaving hospital.

"How are you?"

"Bearable. How are you?"

"The same."

Both looked at the other, assessing. Both looked worse than the last time they had seen each other. But declined to say so.

"I am going away to convalesce. I just wanted to say….I will be back. Sooner rather than later. If you need me."

"It's done. Leave it alone."

"No. Blackmailers never let go. I have no reason to assume Magnussen will be an exception. He will find a way to get to you if he can. "

Jack Smallwood looked at him closely without comment. Reached for his jacket inside pocket. Pulled out a cheque book. Took out a pen, leant to the side and wrote.

Ripped out the page, handed it to Bradshaw, who walked carefully around the table and handed it to Sherlock Holmes.

Who spread his fingers over the paper to stop it fluttering away, looked at the sum written, raised his eyebrows and asked briefly.

"Why this?"

"Investment. Down payment. Advance. Call it what you will."

"Why?"

"I like to think someone will be there for Elizabeth. My safety clause."

They looked at each other. And understood what each was not saying.

Jack Smallwood's expression was level and unflinching.

Sherlock Holmes nodded finally and tucked the cheque into his breast pocket.

"I will not cash this. Not unless I need to."

"You will need to. Before the date time limit runs out."

"Yes. I understand how that may be so."

Sherlock Holmes quelled a sudden sadness within him.

"Does Elizabeth know….about this cheque?"

"We have not discussed it. But probably." He waved a hand airily, twisted a smile. "I shall make my actions very clear. Attribute cause and effect. As to why I do that. Write the cheque, that is. You understand?"

"Yes, Jack. I understand."

The young detective put his napkin on the table, pushed his chair away. Made a formal bow to his host.

"I must go, I'm afraid. Tight timetable, a plane to catch."

He walked round the table and clasped Jack Smallwood's hand.

"I shall see you again."

"Who knows?"

Patted the seated man on the shoulder, left the room without looking back. George Bradshaw saw him to the door. Paused on the threshold.

"Thanks for coming. He appreciated that."

"I know."

"William…"

"I know."

o0o0o0o

She tried to shut the door in his face as soon as she opened it and saw who was there.

"He's at work."

"I know. He told me. That is why I am here. To talk to you."

"We should stop meeting secretly like this, without John. People will talk."

"No bad thing. Stops secrets festering."

"You really can be a total bastard, can't you? And you look terrible."

"That's how being shot makes you. Gets to you after a bit, does it?"

She sighed, stepped back and opened the door properly.

"Oh, do come in before the street looks untidy."

He stepped tentatively and very carefully over the threshold and sat down at the dining table.

Mary Watson crossed her arms in front of her, inches from defensive aggression, and stood and looked down at him.

"Come to gloat? Rub in your victory?"

"What victory? John had to know what happened to me. Know who and what you are. Don't blame me. You made and kept secrets. You shot me. Even after I pleaded with you to tell me what was happening, what you were planning. So I could protect you. I made a vow - remember?"

"I didn't trust you then….."

"Oh! You mean you trust me now? That's progress. Shame it's too late."

She deflated suddenly, sat down opposite him.

"You were right. I should have told him about me before he proposed to me. So he knew what to expect. But how could I dare do that? How could I say: 'Marry me - give me real life and love, stop me being an assassin. Make me ordinary.' How could I do that?

"Because I didn't know then he was anything more than he seemed - a caring doctor and a kind and wonderful man. I didn't see that steel core in him. Because it just wasn't there, then. That best part of him that only comes to the fore when he has you."

Sherlock Holmes looked at her and struggled to keep expression from his face.

"Generous of you to admit it. Because you must know I come to ask a favour."

"No." The response was immediate.

"'No' you didn't know? Or 'No' you won't do it?"

"Both." Her voice was flat, her face hard.

He leaned forward towards her, elbows on the table. Pushed out power.

"Let me make this clear. Spell it out. Make it easy for you."

The real Sherlock Holmes - implacable, irrefutable - was back, even if only temporarily, from the depths of the weak and feeble thing he had become. And Mary Watson sucked in a hard breath at the force of personality overwhelming her.

"Because you shot me instead of Magnussen, he is still alive and still causing immense problems to many people. Including me. But also he will be coming for you and John - because you have laid yourself open to more intense blackmail from him by letting him see you shoot me. And as a direct result of your actions I have shaken hands with death and am currently unfit to act.

"So it is up to you - and you alone - to maintain the status quo until I am well enough to sort out this mess you have put us all in. No-one to blame but you. Face it."

Her head went up. Courage, self defence and professionalism cut in.

"Nothing will stop Magnussen, you took on too much taking him on alone," she declared.

"You are being defeatist. Yet admitting you should help me in the very same breath. What does that tell you?" his voice was hard, assessing. Hers stayed silent.

"I will stop Magnussen," he declared, staring down her quiet defiance. "I will stop Magnussen even if it kills me. And it probably will. But hey - who cares?"

He did not pause for denial because he knew there would not be any.

"I can't do that until I am well again. So I am going away to recover. All you need do to help is precisely nothing. Can you manage that?

She raised her eyes to his again, but did not - could not trust herself at that moment - answer.

"Don't raise your head above the parapet. Don't antagonise the man. Don't rise to any bait. If he tries to employ or blackmail you into action - stall, and tell Mycroft. Low profile. Keep yourself and your husband safe."

" A very small favour, then? Barely worth all the fuss you are making." She tried to belittle, dismiss.

"Don't get smart with me. I didn't start this. And he is your husband. For better, for worse."

"He sleeps in the spare room. Barely talks to me."

"Not my fault. Not my problem."

"What? When he obviously loves you more than he loves me? When you are only doing this because you love him? Well I hope you are bloody happy together….."

Something in her snapped. Damn and blast the bloody man! The superior, smart arse, not-dead best man who had ruined her life simply by existing. Damn him to hell!

She rose in her chair to slap him; but he caught her wrist while the blow was still in flight. Their eyes clashed, and his were harder and deeper than hers.

"Mary. Calm yourself. Why will you still not understand? This is not a battle for John: it is a battle to save John. And save you, because you are his wife. I am not your enemy. I am your friend. So be my friend. Help me. I cannot do this alone. Not yet."

He was still holding her wrist. She looked into his eyes and realised she had never been so physically close to him before. And as she stared as if seeing him for the first time, she suddenly saw the exhaustion, the physical fragility and the pain she herself had put there in him, yet also the determination driving this mercurial man she had always thought untouchable. Saw beyond the handsome features, the imperious look.

And as she took this in he turned her wrist and moved his fingers so instead of grasping and impelling, he now held her hand tentatively, gave her fingers a tiny squeeze. Smiled a little at her; a sad, knowing smile. And then she also saw and finally recognised the gentle understanding, the help and calm, he was trying to offer her.

This was all so alien to what she thought she knew about the younger man and his behaviours, that she was overwhelmed by it.

"Sherlock…" she began, hesitated. "What have I done?"

"Don't dwell on that. That was then, this is now. Concentrate on making it right."

"How?"

In the one word her submission to him was complete. The both knew it.

"Be ready. Keep that Walther in your handbag. Be alert. Your survival - and John's - may depend on it. And the survival of others. I am doing my best to put you behind armour and untouchable until I am well, but I can't be sure."

"What have you done?"

Her voice was hollow with sudden fear as he smiled a very different smile now, yet he answered her in a dreamy, exhausted little voice, with a murmured: "Deal with the devil….." that she did not understand. And knew he would not - perhaps could not - explain.

"What have you done?" she repeated, sharper.

"Played the cards I was dealt. A poker hand. D'you know the phrase? 'Don't play the hand, play the game'?"

He laid her hand down so gently onto the table, and she oddly and unexpectedly felt bereft.

"What do I tell John?"

"Anything you like," he said, shrugging. "But probably best it's not the truth. I have told him not to try to contact me. Need you both to play the game I established, that he and I have drifted apart due to his - your - new life choices. I need that distance to protect you both. John does not like it, but needs must. So keep him away from me."

"Where are you going? When will you be back? How long….?"

"Abroad. Christmas at the latest. How long have you to be on guard? Forever, if I can't sort this when I return."

He levered himself to his feet, drew the Belstaff around him.

"You failed to remove the villain. I will finish what you started. Retrieve all the blackmail material Magnussen has on you and destroy it. So it does not destroy you. Have you finally got that clear in your mind?"

"I don't deserve that."

She stood and faced him. Clenched her fists and looked anguished, and conflicted and out of her depth.

"No. You don't." His face and voice were expressionless. But then he suddenly smiled at her with almost boyish warmth. "But when has something like that ever stopped me?"

She put her arms around him then. Kissed his cheek and hugged him close. Felt him pat her shoulder briefly and a little awkwardly.

"Come back safely to us," she said.

"Coming back safely isn't the problem. What happens after that will be."

And he turned on his heel and was gone. She stood at the door and watched him walk away, get into a black cab. Felt better, and lighter, than she had in months.

o0o0o0o

"He's in a meeting."

The personal assistant who hid her real identity behind the code name Anthea looked up from her computer screen as Sherlock Holmes entered her office without knocking.

"How long?"

"Winding up now. Ten minutes?"

"If he's not out by then you must interrupt. This is important and I have a flight to catch."

She nodded without committing herself and gestured him down into a chair by the window, and he sat and mindlessly looked out into the typically silent and uninhabited Whitehall courtyard. White noise was starting to take over where his brain should be.

He was weak and tired from spending so long in hospital. His brain was working only at half speed. Reaction to the danger and adrenalin overload of the morning and being so close to dying yet again, had left him feeling as if he was constantly shaking, and that everyone who saw him would notice that, and recognise him as a coward and a fool.

He hunched his shoulders and zoned out for five quiet, blessed minutes, and was glad the young woman he knew by a real name that was not Anthea was not inclined to social chat he did not have strength or inclination for.

When the panelled oak door to Mycroft Holmes' inner sanctum opened, Mycroft himself was ushering out a tall poised woman with natural elegance and dyed black hair in a double bun.

When Mycroft saw his brother sitting quietly across the outer office he put a hand on the woman's arm and turned her, so her face was away from Sherlock. A defensive move that sprung his brother's brain into full observational mode.

The woman stiffened at his warning touch and looked Mycroft in the face, and Sherlock watched something shift across his brother's eyes.

"I am so sorry to arrive unbidden and be an embarrassment by my presence," Sherlock spoke formally, the words distant automatic etiquette. "But needs must."

"Not at all," Mycroft responded smoothly, putting himself between Sherlock and the woman, masking his view of anything but her back as she passed silently through the office and into the anonymous corridor beyond.

He did not think he knew her, even though there was something familiar; but he would recognise the walk, the head carriage, the body line, the set of the skull on the neck and the formation of the ears, the shape of one hand and it's two rings, the lie of the eyelashes on an unlined cheek…..even without seeing the woman's face, he would know her again.

Mycroft closed the outer door and asked the obvious question:

"What are you doing here?"

"Appropriating five minutes of your time. To tell you about….my morning."

Mycroft read the meaning rather than the words, and silently gestured his brother to come into his office.

"Hold any calls. Tell my next appointment I will be ten minutes late…." he murmured to his assistant.

"So?" he asked, closing the door behind them.

He went back to his leather captain's chair behind the mahogany partner's desk and noted that Sherlock stayed close to the door, leaning against the wall rather than taking the seat opposite him.

"Someone tried to kill me this morning. Broke into 221B to shoot me."

"Anyone we know?"

Mycroft's concentration sharpened.

"Dean Dixon Carr. Sally Donovan and team from the Yard took him into custody. He should be applying for the Chiltern Hundreds as I speak."

"You had witnesses?"

"Of course I had bloody witnesses!" Self control lost out to weakness and then he lost patience with himself. "Witnesses who saved my life. You don't honestly think I'm fit to protect myself while I'm like this, do you?"

"Calm down."

"I am calm. Perfectly calm. But for Christ's sake, Mycroft: I hadn't been out of hospital for even half a day!"

"I can organise protective custody. A secure convalescent establishment. Just say…"

"None of that. That is imprisonment. I have been there before. Never again."

He took five seconds to gather some self control, and in that time Mycroft had crossed the room again to stand in front of him. Close but not touching. Assessment but not judgement.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." The voice was unusually soft, muted "Tell me."

So the boy told his big brother what had happened. What he planned. Where he was going. And Mycroft Holmes nodded.

"Yes. That will be best. Alone. Where no-one would ever thinking of looking for you. Take your time. Recover properly for once. Can you do that?"

"Yes." He nodded and spoke curtly, but in fact the relief of not being pressured into a path Mycroft might prefer him to take had made him feel almost giddy and he was glad he was already depending on the wall to hold him up and not having to stoop and reach for it.

"What can I do for you while you are away?"

"Keep an eye on the Watsons," Mycroft tilted his head, about to speak. But Sherlock stopped him. "No. Not that. Not for affection, whatever that is. Because I feel Magnussen may well find his hold over Mary Watson irresistible, And will be impelled to try and use it as a priority, especially with me away. And she is no mere cipher to be manoeuvring. She has the capacity to be lethal. As I know only too well. I do not want him to exercise her into being lethal on anyone else just because he has the potential of using Mary as his tool."

Mycroft snapped a brisk, professional nod.

"Indeed. I shall instigate CCTV at their home to keep a weather eye on the Watsons. Their humdrum existence will be easy to overview. And Magnussen is already being watched. Surveillance will increase. It would be a delight to see the man legally compromised even before the Select Committee gets to him."

"Is that so?"

Sherlock Holmes gave what felt like his first genuine smile of the day.

His brother smiled back straight into his eyes without complication or guile.

"May I stay in touch? Update you?"

"Yes; and call me back here. If needed."

"We shall see."

"I mean it, Mycroft."

"I know. But short term expediency is genuinely less important now than your long term welfare."

"Welfare! What welfare?" his tone was scathing, his intelligence taken unawares.

But Mycroft did not snipe in return. Took the retort seriously.

"I am more aware than anyone the privations you suffered bringing down Moriarty's network and removing those threats. And to more than just your friends. If you were a trained professional you would not have been left without support or rest for longer than six months. And yet there you were, an amateur, operating alone in the field for two years. That, I have to tell you, is exceptional."

"Shut up, do."

"No, Sherlock. This needs saying. And I regret not having said it before. I brought you out of Serbia - not from common humanity, or even brotherly love, God help me, but for expediency.

"You were needed to foil the parliament bomb threat - only you could do that. We knew it. Despite your level of damage being high. But you were needed desperately. I had no choice, and neither did my masters. So you were pumped full of drugs and set running again immediately to solve and halt the threat to Parliament. And you solved that too, damn you.

"You never had time to rest and recuperate. You were never debriefed. You just kept going - like you do - without breaking stride, And now we have the Magnussen problem. Which has taken more out of you, demanded more from you, than even you can absorb without the whole thing turning toxic.

"So just for once do as I tell you, child. Step off the roundabout. Let the world quieten down around you and take time - this time - to recover. Time you should have taken almost three years ago, Go away and mend."

He smiled a rare smile and touched his little brother briefly on the wrist. Sherlock watched as if mesmerised as the long slim hand so like his own reached out to touch him. He could not remember the last time that had happened. And the last time they had actually touched….Sherlock had slammed Mycroft into the wall at Baker Street.

"And then come back stronger and even better."

 _That was more like it! That was more like Mycroft! Invest time in rebooting the machine to make it operate better, faster, stronger. But of course!_

"I knew there would be a catch," he whispered. He was finding it hard to make his voice work. Why ever could that be?

"There is always a catch," Mycroft responded. Drew a breath. "Now - go. I will text you if anything occurs and needs your attention. I promise."

Sherlock nodded, unable to find words or form any.

As he turned and left the room, he thought he heard Mycroft whisper:

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

o0o0o0o

"Made your mind up yet?" Davy Gallagher's voice brought him back into the moment. And he realised he had drunk all his coffee. "You going in, or what?"

"Definitely 'or what.' But I'm going in. You'll wait? Shouldn't take long."

"If I'm not here when you come out, ring me. I'll be parked up somewhere near."

He nodded. Could put off the evil moment no longer.

He left the cosy refuge of the cab to walk slowly across the piazza entrance to the ultra modern newspaper publishing and communications centre. CAM News.

 _I must be mad. I am mad. Why should I be walking into the lion's den like this when I can barely walk? When the brain is not functioning properly? When I can't feel my feet on the ground? When everything looks too bright yet the edges of vision are foggy? When I am so tired I can't….._

"Sherlock Holmes for Mr Magnussen. No appointment, I'm afraid, but I hope he will see me. It is somewhat urgent."

The receptionist remembered him. Honoured him with a nod of recognition. Spoke

briefly into a microphone, listened and nodded.

"You can go straight up. Floor 32. You know the way?"

She handed him a temporary pass and watched as he crossed the foyer and presented himself at the glass lift. Lifted the pass to the scanner, stepped inside the transparent cube and looked heavenwards.

There was silence when the lift stopped after the doors purred open. He hesitated before stepping out. Even though Davy Gallagher was waiting outside, knowing where he had gone, who he had gone to see. And would be poised to raise the alarm. If necessary. Even if it was too late.

"Sherlock? Is it you? Oh! Yes. I thought you were still in hospital."

Magnussen came through from the sitting room into the foyer entrance and stopped in his tracks.

"I left hospital last evening. I nearly went back this morning."

"Some sort of relapse? You poor boy…"

Magnussen was all concern and solicitude and Sherlock quelled an impulse to punch him.

 _No! Don't do that! Act as you must! Get through this! Don't think it through. Just do it. You know what you must do…_

"No. Nothing like that. Someone tried to kill me this morning….I…." He ducked his head and his step faltered as Magnussen's hands took his elbows and supported him. He leant in; it was an effort to do so. "Sorry. Still suffering reaction, I suppose. Still ill. But I needed to see you…"

"And why was that?"

 _Oft have I travelled in the realms of gold…_

"So that you would know I was OK. In case the gossip rags masquerading as newspapers got hold of the news first. Made out I had been injured when I was already hurt. But it's not every day a Member of Parliament tries to kill a mere detective. So I need to see you - tell you what really happened - before you heard or read the garbled version."

Sherlock Holmes pawed weakly and ineffectually at Magnusson's arm.

 _I say naught for your comfort, naught for your desire….._

And why would you do that?"

"Because I know…." words failed him, and a tear rolled down his right cheek.

Magnussen watched it fall with fascination and put out a hand to catch the tear on his thumb. Raised his hand and, with his pale blue eyes firmly fixed on Sherlock's opal grey eyes, slowly licked the salt water from his hand.

Sherlock giggled as if embarrassed.

 _Save the night gets darker yet, and the waves grow higher….._

"Because I know you like me. And I didn't want you worried. Or to get the wrong idea."

"About what?"

"That I might be working. Again. Already…." he waved a vague hand to reflect his confusion of words. Watched Magnussen carefully through his tears. "Lady Smallwood paid me off, you know. Gave me the sack. Because I am not well. Not investigating anything or anyone now. Not even from my hospital bed. Didn't want you to think it was my fault - or yours - that a friend of yours decided to kill me…."

 _Mother, there's a strange man at the door…_

"What friend?"

"Why: Dean Dixon Carr, of course."

"His idiocy is his own. Revenge for his perverted children, I take it?" A brief, assessing pause as those pale eyes flickered. "He is no friend of mine, Sherlock. I don't have friends."

 _We were young, we were merry, we were very, very wise…don't discuss the children; or the fact I know you employed them to attack me, warn me off the case….._

"Neither do I," Sherlock Holmes sniffed and smiled. "Perhaps that is why we get on so well, Charles."

Magnussen stepped closer. Put a hand out to catch another tear, cupped fingers delicately round Sherlock's head. Sherlock drifted into the touch. Closed his eyes.

"But you do have friends, Sherlock. John Watson. His wife. A woman who was dangerous once. And will be again if I have anything to do with it." The words were softly spoken, but had a hard logic to them even so.

"She's s not dangerous any more. She's lost her nerve. That's why she shot me instead of you. She bottled it. She is pathetic."

"She nearly killed you. Why are you defending her?"

"This is not defending. This is warning you against using substandard goods."

"Oh! So that is what she is? And what is John Watson, then? To you?"

"Not what he was. You know that."

 _Still you try to manipulate me; but you don't know where your interest lies…._

Magnussen smiled. A slow seductive smile and drifted his hand up across the detective's face. Dug his hand deep into Sherlock Holmes' hair, then fiercely clenched his fist around a handful of dark curls and watched the younger man flinch.

"You are a clever young man and a cunning one. Why should I believe a word you say?"

"Because I am telling you the truth. Listen to me." He swallowed and wobbled on his feet. Flailed his arms a little. He wasn't acting.

"The attack frightened me. Shocked me. Proved I am still ill. Need to recuperate. So I am going away. For safety, recovery. But also to plan how to give you my brother. As I promised."

"Go on."

 _I weep like a child for the past…_

He slumped a little, let Magnussen feel the weight of holding him erect by the hair.

"I am not functioning properly yet. Can't you see? Understand?"

"Understand what?"

That my feeling for you is such…." he hesitated, Began again.

 _God, I feel ill. Look ill. Sound ill. Then use that as a positive while you can, you cretin!_

"I keep my word. Always. Promised you. Our assignation. My brother. I have just met with my brother. Told him what happened this morning. Told him I am going away. He was not pleased.

"Not his idea you see, not his control. He hates me. He said…surveillance is increasing on you. Before you appear before the Select Committee again. So I had to come and warn you."

Magnusson frowned. Sherlock could see the brain whirling behind the eyes.

"Why would you do that?"

"Because. Because I like you. Respect you. Want to be with you. You know that."

 _Liar, liar, pants on fire…_

He lifted tired and slightly unfocussed eyes to meet Magnussen's.

"Why should I believe you? You are not a candidate for Stockholm Syndrome."

"Nothing like that. Because you are yourself. Alpha - like me. Charles, look at me. I am too weak right now to tell anything but truth."

 _I kept six honest serving men, they taught me all I knew…_

"Is that so?"

Magnussen's face twisted a small grin. Sherlock smiled back. And then screamed.

For the Danish billionaire suddenly and viciously tightened his grip on Sherlock's hair. Jerked down hard, slamming him quickly to his knees. Too weak to resist, too slow to react, he went down hard, painfully, and began to fall forward.

But the unrelenting grip in his hair held him upright.

Through the shock and pain he was aware of Magnussen moving around him, straddling his thighs and now hauling him up and backwards by the hair, so that Sherlock was kneeling, but leaning helplessly back into the support of Magnussen's braced legs, shoulders to groin, head pulled back and throat exposed.

There was no way he could throw off the hold, or fight back. All he could do was stay where he had been put. Frightened by his own physical weakness, impotent in his anger, subsumed by hatred, both of Magnussen and of himself.

 _He who would valiant be, 'gainst all disaster…_

"Do you like that, Sherlock? Being close to another man like this? To me? Being forced to submit to me?"

He tried to turn, look back and up to see into Magnussen's face, but couldn't. Instead he offered a hard grin that could as easily be read as anger or passion. Or both.

Magnussen stooped over him. Ran a hand hard down Sherlock's throat. Leant on the Adam's apple until he choked and fought for breath. Stopped the chance of any reply.

"Well, I like it."

He laughed then.

The hand on the throat moved downwards to delicately part the front of the Belstaff. Then the front of the suit jacket. The other hand in the hair that was holding him up pushed forward and down. So he was then on all fours. A move meant to demean, demoralise.

Sherlock tried to get down further, reach the relative protection of the floor by lying on it, But Magnussen hauled him back and upwards again, leant him, almost idly, back against his legs again.

"You don't get away from me as easily as that, Sherlock. Oh no."

The free hand worked fingers between the shirt buttons.

"No!"

"My dear boy, please do not sound so panic stricken. What do you think I am going to do? Take you here and now on the floor? What a waste that would be when you are far too ill to respond and reciprocate properly? As if I would do that.

"Far better to relish my power. Anticipate our delight to come. For let me assure you. I shall not squander that opportunity when it comes. And I want you at full health and awareness then. Trust me."

 _My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings, look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.._

The fingers worked free the buttons. Two. Three. Four.

Sherlock Holmes could feel the cool air on his still over sensitive chest.

"I like naked chests. I am so lucky."

Those busy fingers roamed across his torso with unhurried insolence. Sherlock Holmes bit his lip to stay silent and not scream, and tasted blood.

"You see, I do not quite trust you, Sherlock. I still think your shooting might have been a stunt. A clever stunt staged by you and your best friend's wife. To make me think she is more dangerous than she is? Perhaps. Perhaps she panics under pressure nowadays? That she is trigger happy and shoots anyone - even the power monger? Which is me.

"Perhaps I think you have set it up between you. For turning up to her assassination attempt on me was a bit of a coincidence, don't you think?"

Fingers toyed with a nipple, which responded. The body beneath the hand convulsed.

"Perhaps the shooting was a wax bullet into a sac of Kensington Gore? Not real. When I visited you in hospital it seemed so convincing. Yet all there was to see was tubes and machines and a dressing. I never had time to investigate that dressing. Pick the scab. To be sure.

"So now I shall see for sure. Yes?"

But after eleven weeks the dressing had gone. The scab fallen away, just a scar and an area around it pink and tender, but no longer looking catastrophic.

Fingers touched the scar with surprising gentleness as Sherlock shuddered and drew a hard breath.

"Not much to see, is there? How disappointing. Not clever make up, is it? Let me check."

He lifted his arm, drew it back and jabbed the centre of the scar hard with a sharp thumb. In any other context it would be considered a martial arts blow.

Sherlock Holmes could not have stopped himself even if he had tried. For he screamed then. High and loud. Arched away from the pain as much as he could. But Magnussen stilled his movement. Snapped control through pain by clenching the handful of hair.

"Hush now. Just need to check. You will understand that. Being a detective."

He laughed, patted Sherlock's cheek.

"But you look wonderful like this. Wrecked. Just like you do after sex. So I'll do that again. Just for luck. And so I can remember the sight of you. Until we are ready for more."

The fist rose and paused. Sherlock Holmes bared his teeth. Bit back abuse and blasphemy. His eyes flashed, Caught and held Magnussen's.

"Go on then. Listen to me scream. Eat my pain."

 _Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I shall fear no…._

"ARGH"

The scream was louder this time, more abandoned. The body jolted backwards, arms waving wildly out of control.

The reactive right hand flung upwards and caught Magnussen's hand, the one holding his hair, and for a second there seemed some accidental travesty of touch, like the two men holding hands, as Sherlock Holmes scrabbled with that right hand.

For position, now. For purchase.

Caught Magnussen's little finger. Jerked it up then folded it back hard. Upwards and back.

Afterwards it was impossible to remember which sound came first: the click of the bone breaking or Charles Augustus Magnussen's own scream of pain as his entire body folded in, following that pain down.

Panting, hurting, impossibly feeble, Sherlock Holmes suddenly had the upper hand. Despite his weakness he pulled the other man's arm round, twisted both their bodies so they swapped places. From dominated to dominator.

"Taking advantage of a man while he is down?. Not playing the game, Charles. Tut-tut. " He fought for the breath to speak and ignored pink stars of extremis clouding his vision. "My body is weak, but my spirit is so willing."

Smiled into Magnusson's face from a little too close, and in a way people who knew him would recognise as scary, false and deeply controlled.

"But all rather fun. Our weekend together is going to be like….honey on gravel. Scorpions mating. I can barely wait. But you will not hurt me like that again, Charles. Sorry you had to learn your lesson the hard way."

Charles Augustus Magnussen clutched his right hand with his left, sweating with pain and was mute. Looking as his victim with new eyes.

"Just remember two can play at this game. And I have dirty tricks while you only have dirt. Also remember I shall be bearing gifts when I come to you. If you are a good boy for me.

"So hold back now. Watch your step. Leave the Watsons alone. And remember my warning. Big brother is watching you."

He left Magnussen on the floor, but had to crawl three steps away from him before he could use a chair as a ladder to claw his way up to the vertical and to stand.

Afterwards he never did remember getting into the lift, travelling down to ground level, crossing the foyer. Or even getting outside.

He remembered taking a huge breath. Leaning against the outside wall, unable to move. Remembered Davy Gallagher running towards him, lifting him by the elbows and almost carrying him to the cab. Being driven away at speed.

Slumping back into the seat. And shaking. Shaking. Unable to speak when Davy turned round to him at traffic lights and asked if he was all right. Not answering in words, but laughing. Laughing long and hard. Laughing like an idiot. Because he was an idiot.

London flashed by and past his addled eyes. An idiot. Exit one idiot to safety and sanctuary. If the idiot was lucky…..

TO BE CONTINUED…

 **Author's notes:**

To apply for the **Chiltern Hundreds** is wording of the formal legal application to resign from Parliament before the process of a general election. The Hundreds were originally an ancient parliamentary division in Buckinghamshire

Kensington Gore is the name of a form of artificial blood made for theatre and film use. A pun on the name of a London street.

The poems etc quoted by Sherlock in Magnussen's penthouse are:

On Looking Into Chapman's Homer (John Keats)

The Ballad Of The White Horse (GK Chesterton)

Mother, There's A Strange Man At The Door (Roger McGough)

Unwelcome (Mary Elizabeth Coleridge)

You Don't Know Where Your Interest Lies (Paul Simon)

Piano (DH Lawrence)

An ancient children's rhyme

I Keep Six Honest Serving Men (Rudyard Kipling)

To Be A Pilgrim (John Bunyan)

Ozymandias (PB Shelley)

Psalm 23

Stockholm Syndrome is a mental condition where a captive becomes emotionally and intellectually attached to his/her captor due to dominance and dependence.

O0o0o0o


	29. Chapter 29

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 29: 'When loneliness came…'

There had been one other call to make before he left London. A last minute decision, and with little time to spare in which to make it.

"You have someone who says he is a private patient of yours demanding to see you. Right now. Won't take no for an answer. Says he has a plane to catch and can't wait. So I'm sending him….Oh! He's gone!"

Dr John Watson sighed deeply and pushed his chair away from his desk at his receptionist's words. And as he did so the door to his consulting room opened without so much as a cursory knock.

Sherlock Holmes. It was not so much the look on his face or the set of his shoulders that made his doctor want to leap to his feet. It was the fact that the Belstaff was completely buttoned up to the neck, the collar flipped up, the scarf up past his throat, the hands jammed down to the bottom of the pockets.

Sherlock Holmes. Buttoned up, closed in, closed down. Eyes almost the only part of him visible, and looking anywhere except at him.

A quick appraising look, a step to one side to lean back, very erect, against the wall. As if ready for a quick getaway. Rocking gently, weight from balls of feet to heels, back again, and again and again.

"What's happened?"

Two demanding words full of urgency.

"Oh, nothing much. Been sorting stuff. Wanted you to know." Quick words, staccato, deceptively vague. That didn't fool John Watson for a moment.

"What's happened?"

"I'm on my way to the airport. Rest and recuperation they call it in the army, don't they?"

"Sherlock….."

"It's just…. " the façade collapsed and drifted away. "Molly says I have to tell you things. So I'm telling you. I've sorted it You will be OK while I'm away. Safe. Well; safe as I can make you."

"Am I supposed to say thank you? When I haven't a clue what you're talking about?"

He looked down then into stormy blue eyes silently demanding answers Slumped against the wall a little, capitulated.

"This morning, when you saved my life yet again….something snapped. Can't keep putting you through this. Not for me."

"Have I ever complained? You think I keep count?"

Truth answered truth. No time to skirt round the issue.

"Not the point. Can't endanger you any more. Husband and prospective father. Not fair."

John Watson made a strange sound in his throat.

"Don't. Just. Don't."

"Molly says you have been worrying. Thinking things. Well, I'll tell you…."

"No, Sherlock."

"Yes, John. Don't interrupt. Need to tell you." He took a breath and steeled himself. "Not dying from some horrible disease. I got shot, had complications. Going away to get better.

"Not in love with Mary. Not in love with you. Don't do emotion. You know that."

"Saying that doesn't earn you brownie points, Sherlock." John Watson took out a thought that had been occupying him all day. " This morning you said something. Something you thought I didn't notice. But I heard you - just didn't know how to react. You said you and Mary love me. Well, this needs saying as well: we love you, too."

"Don't need that. Made a slip of the tongue. Under duress. Don't make it an issue."

"I must. Because I know you. I thought I had forgotten, even that I didn't care any more. Must have been mad, mustn't I? Been a bit distracted lately. Not distracted any more."

"Stay distracted. Close to Mary. She loves you and will mind your back."

"Oh, fine! That's meant to reassure me, is it?"

"Yes."

"You' re really going away again? Only you look so frail."

He wanted to add "damaged beyond belief" and "for reasons you let no-one understand" and "tell me what really happened to you to make you like this." And-somehow, the question he dared not ever ask - "tell me about the rape."

But he couldn't. The walls Sherlock Holmes built and stood behind were too strong. And too new. And he didn't know if he was allowed behind those walls any more. Did not dare test the strength of the structure. Of the new and still constrained lesser version of their old. easy friendship.

"…and this is a doctor saying that. As well as your friend." He tried a light tone, a reassuring smile, got a frown in return. "I don't do hearts and flowers, but from the little you've said I'm finally getting it now, Sherlock."

He was getting angry, he could feel it. Pugnacious. Sherlock Holmes did that to you when he was being his most self contained and impassive.

"Everything has been just bloody for you for a long time, hasn't it? And I haven't helped. But I would…if you'd ever thought of asking. Not even asking, actually… I can't let you disappear again. Not all alone again…."

"Always alone. Alone protects me."

"This morning it didn't."

"I don't need telling." He stamped a foot slightly in frustration, looked at his feet as if they were someone else's, and up again. "I must go away. Get better. Don't want to. Feels like defeat. Like letting Magnussen win."

He shivered in a breath as if he was cold.

"I must think of this as stepping back from an opponent to get strength and balance for the knockout punch. My plan in place, the timer on the bomb ticking.

"You and Mary are both problem and solution. I'm sorry. Can't avoid it any longer. The situation Mary created by shooting me. She does know I will solve it, though - protect you both - make her safe."

"I don't like the sound of that. It sounds dangerous."

"Really?" The response was high pitched and on an edge close to hysteria before it pulled back from the brink. "No. I don't think…not for you, anyway."

A fist slammed backwards into the wall in frustration.

"Dammit, I should be able to just do this. Go straight for the kill. Bring down Magnussen. I don't need the complication of people! Of not having my strength. Physical and mental."

John Watson began to speak, reached forward, but Sherlock Holmes shook his head fiercely and put his arms up in front of his face for silence, to fend away. Cleared his throat; voice level again.

"My plan is simple in structure, just complicated in delivery; but that's OK, I will sort all that while I am away."

"You're lying."

"When do I lie to you?"

"All the bloody time!" John Watson stayed in his seat, fighting an impulse to stand up and shake sense into the idiot. "Is this to do with you being attacked by Magnussen?"

"You can use the word 'rape,' John. Be accurate."

"Stop punishing yourself. I won't let you do that. And this is me you're talking to." He bit back the sharp military tone he heard himself pushed into using.

"I am just trying to tell you what I can …. but there are things you need not know. That is one of them. I have done a deal with the devil."

"Magnussen?"

"Magnussen. Yes. Don't dwell on it. I won't."

"But you are frightened of him. Terrified. You said so. And you never say anything like that. Jesus, Sherlock: have you got some weird scheme going? Planning to make yourself available to him like some sort of rent boy? Despite what was done to you?"

"Don't be so melodramatic. It is just a pathway. An empty promise from a hollow thing. The only lever I have to put me in the right place for what has to be done."

Sherlock Holmes shrugged as if indifferent.

"I don't like it. I can't let you." Watson's voice was grim. "You can't sacrifice yourself like this for me….for us."

"You can't stop me. If your choice is survival of Mary or of me, as it well might…..you know which you must choose."

"Do I?"

"Yes, you do." He nodded sharply "Too much talk, now. I must get to Heathrow and catch my plane. Don't dwell on this. Just accept what will happen."

"Will I see you again? Or are you really leaving me for good this time?"

Sherlock Holmes, turning away, paused with his hand on the door knob. Then said, as if inconsequentially:

"To keep our parents out of the way while I was in hospital, Mycroft and I agreed to visit them at Christmas." He nodded again, as if answering an internal question.

"I will be back by Christmas at the latest." He hesitated. Slanted a look sideways. John Watson said nothing.

"Come down to our parents for Christmas. Come and join us. You and Mary."

It was the last thing the doctor had expected to hear.

"Really? Us? With the Holmes family for Christmas?" He chuckled, eyes alight like a small boy. He could neither help it, nor disguise it.

"Come. Then you can see and believe what you already know."

"What do I already know?"

"That I fight and fight alone, but I can't do this one without you. God help me."

There were so many things John Watson wanted to say in answer to that, he was struck dumb. Anger, horror, frustration, fear - and anyway, when had God ever had anything to do with Sherlock Holmes?

By the time he found the right words - "Don't even bloody try!" - Sherlock Holmes had gone. To foreign lands and foreign behaviour.

While somehow Doctor John Watson had to return to the mundane: migraines and mouth ulcers and even the remnants of his marriage.

o0o0o0o

Matti Anker opened the rear door of the elderly dark blue Saab and helped Sherlock Holmes inside.

"You are well now?"

"Working on it."

"But of course."

The short journey from airport to capital city, into another place that was not unfamiliar but was still another world, meant that finally he could begin to relax. Pull his shoulders down from around his ears. Perhaps even stop looking behind him.

Throughout his time in hospital, his unspoken target had been to get well enough to be released in time for the wedding.

It was an untypical sort of ambition, but it was a practical, physical target to aim for. And he had needed one.

He felt he owed Piet Bruhl and Fredrick Sondersun. Bruhl had pulled him out of a canal and cut out a tracking device from under his skin, while Sondersun had taken a bullet meant for him.

He had realised his ambition with just three days to spare. Not much of a margin, but enough.

For now it would also be enough to be a foreign visitor, a convalescent, a wedding guest. Mainly unknown and anonymous. Magnussen had not had enough time to organise anyone to follow and track him. Would have been enveloped in his own woes while Sherlock Holmes had been heading to Denmark.

And how could Magnussen even begin to expect to find him in Denmark again? When there was a whole world for him to choose from? And where lightning would never have been expected to strike twice?

Attending the wedding would remove him from the orbit of Magnussen and Mycroft and Mary. From threats of murder in the morning. From an inhuman level of expectation, from himself towards himself. But also from everyone else around him.

The day just gone, he finally had to admit to himself, had upset him.

There had been a time when he would have just left Baker Street and stepped out of his life for however long it took to put things right. When he would have ignored those around him and simply disappeared.

But the shooting and the hospitalisation had weakened his mind as well as his body. Too much time to think about inconsequential things. People. How people reacted to him and responded. And how he responded in return. He had never had time for that before. But over the past eleven weeks he had had no choice.

The anger that had fuelled him from the moment Moriarty had started playing the Great Game, playing with him, playing with parts of himself no-one ever took notice of or considered - his own wishes, his psyche, his heart - had damaged parts of himself that were so closed off that the daylight now touching them hurt. Pumping blood unbidden into withered, atrophied emotional muscles.

Moriarty, of all people, had realised that. Had scoffed at the pool when Sherlock had pointed a gun at Moriarty's head. Sherlock had had the gun, but Moriarty had had the weapon that caused the greatest amount of damage.

Sherlock had said - what he had said thousands of times before - that he had no heart. And Moriarty had blown those defences away.

Three years on, and Sherlock was still raw and bleeding from that. He didn't have friends. He didn't want friends. Being alone was self and sanity and safety.

Mycroft was just the same. Mycroft knew and understood. But other people wormed their way in around the edges. Lestrade, somewhere between what a proper big brother should be as well as a father figure. A colleague, an admirer, but far from an uncritical one. Tough love and toughness together.

Then Molly: sweet diffident, clever Molly, who saw much but said little. Who behind the shy exterior hid a brilliant brain and an admirable astringent intelligence. And in the final analysis would always say and do the right thing, however much courage it demanded from her to do so. And help him, always help him.

He had thought he only needed a flatmate to have someone to talk at, a functionary to shop for groceries and change light bulbs. To cope with the everyday traumas everyone else found so easy, yet he found so puzzling and so impossible.

Finding John Watson had been a fluke. A friend of a friend who needed not so much accommodation but sanctuary. Who turned out to be a military man and a doctor, and the perfect sensible foil to become a much needed assistant as well as a person who was neither frightened nor appalled by the Sherlock Holmes persona. Who took it all in his stride. And, even better - or was it worse? - understood.

A friend by default. Not wanted, never sought for, ever experienced. Like the best things, it just happened. A flash of lightning. A gunshot. A flame of fire from a pistol muzzle.

And so much had been gained, and then lost, in the larger flame that small spit of fire had ignited.

John Watson. Who had saved him in so many ways, and who he had risked all to save in return. Then his return from the dead, which had meant to be glorious, life enhancing, triumphant. But it had gone wrong. Too much pain, too much damage all round. The tiny miss of a return effected a little too late, a void a mile wide. Watson's grief from death and separation had blossomed into love and a new life and direction. Whereas Sherlock Holmes' grief of separation from all he had been took a different and more unfair path.

He had changed the world for the better by using his exile for good, yet was still being punished for that. Nothing now was the same. The people he knew; their lives. He had had to make room for Mary Watson, for the new John Watson that was no longer the flatmate, certainly not an assistant, probably no longer a friend.

So where did that leave him, other than angry and hurt and depressed? Better not to have been touched by humanity, he had often thought with bitter resignation. Better never to have know what he now missed. Friendship and support and a mutuality of souls.

Sentimental balderdash, he told himself firmly. He had always been alone. Friendship and understanding had lasted for a mere blink of an eye in comparison to all the years of being alone. No, not lonely, not ever that. Loneliness as a state of being was something he had never ascribed to.

But now his logical brain had to admit that sometimes, just sometimes, it was better to not always have to be alone. To function with someone minding his back, sheltering his body, releasing his thoughts. Refuge, sounding board, companion, backstop, triangulation point, voice of calm in the darkness.

John Watson had been all of these things. And now he wasn't.

Adjusting to the change back to what he had been was taking longer to come to terms with than expected. Getting back to normal had been the target for achievement that had kept him functioning, achieving, moving forward for two whole and awful years. But the normal he had known was no longer the normal of return. Even though the new normal was more normal in the eyes of the world.

Less than normal for Sherlock Holmes. But that did not mean Sherlock Holmes no longer owed John Watson. He owed him his life, time without number. He owed him more than that. So he also owed more to John Watson's wife. Even though she had shot him, almost killed him, and made him suffer. He was still suffering.

But he was out of hospital now, fighting his way clear of all that. And if he was the only person who felt leaving the field of battle to recover and recuperate was weak and pathetic and unprincipled….when everyone else who knew him thought exactly the opposite….well, that was life.

And how did that make him feel? It made, he knew, a stronger need to dig in, get well, come back stronger and brighter and cleverer. For Mycroft had been right, as always. The transport had needed care and maintenance.

And the best way - his best way - to come back stronger and harder was to push past his limits to find new limits. Had that not always been the way? And deal with what had created and made him himself?

Shakespeare had got it right. His most divisive and memorable character always maintained he was himself alone. Had always to enter solus. 'I that have neither pity, nor love nor fear…. Seeking a way and straying from the way….. toiling desperately to find it out.'

That had struck a chord since childhood. It still struck a chord now.

His deep sigh had even the taciturn Matti turn his head slightly to attend.

"You OK, man?"

"Yes, Matti. Just tired. What's the agenda the boys have set for me?"

Matti Anker grinned.

"An unusual hotel for you for three days. Time and space to relax and enjoy. Then the wedding day, and your return to the hotel. The next morning I take you to the summerhouse on Agnaro.

"Where you will rest and revive yourself. It is a place of peace. You will see."

This was the longest speech Sherlock Holmes had ever heard from Piet Bruhl's assistant.

"I look forward to it."

"You should. A special place."

"You know it?"

"All my life. My family are seafarers and fishermen on the coast. Places like Agnaro are in our blood. This is how I have always known the Bruhl family."

He perhaps would have said more. But travelling through central Copenhagen along the Bernstorffgarde, Matti swung the Saab into the Tivoli Gardens opposite the railway station.

Grassy stretches, fairground rides, open air stages, people walking and chattering - and the most remarkable white turreted building, lit up to show off the extravaganza of Arabian colonnades and a minaret style tower topped with a gilded onion dome. Like a giant sized version of Brighton Pavilion.

"Spectacular!" Sherlock exclaimed despite himself. "And I am staying here?"

"Indeed. The best and most unique hotel Copenhagen has to offer. The Hotel Nimb."

Matti swept the old Saab up to the entrance with a grin, fetched the luggage, ushered Sherlock inside.

The fantastical and classical design with it's restful grey and white décor was balm for the soul. Old fashioned, discreet service. A restaurant, spa and pool were available, even his own butler for the duration of his stay.

If he wanted, he would be able to rest within his suite without having to even leave it for meals. But while the view of the gardens from the windows could beckon him out into the world, the four poster bed, the luxury armchairs and the open fire could also lure him to remain in solitude and luxurious comfort.

Matti ensured his telephone number went into Sherlock's mobile contact list, and promised he could be available at any time between now and the wedding if needed, and a car would collect him on the day to deliver him to the village church for the ceremony.

Sherlock finally folded down into an armchair by a window, looking out. Accepted the offer of tea from the butler, Larsen, and ordered a light evening meal to be brought up.

The world stopped moving and there was silence at last. He consciously relaxed, unwound the tension in his shoulders. Let his arms fall to the side and dropped his head.

He reminded himself that no-one in London knew exactly where he was; and only Mycroft knew the city and the reason for being there, and where he would be going next.

The sense of release was almost overpowering, He was still sitting there, unmoving, when Larsen brought his tea tray, and he took pleasure in the small ceremony of stirring the pot, preparing the cup, pouring and tasting.

After the first sips the fine white porcelain cup sat quietly in it's saucer on his lap. And he rested his eyes.

He must have dozed, because the wheeled table with his meal upon it seemed to be in the room within seconds, and he forked down salmon and salad and tiny new potatoes followed by an apricot compote and finished the lot. Refuel. Restore. Rebuild.

It was still early, but he showered and took himself to bed in the huge four poster with it's crisp linen and firm pillows. Not the cosy clutter of Baker Street. Not the clinical sterility of the Royal London Hospital. And this time - _this time -_ no-one to wake him from sleep with a gun to his head and the threat of death.

So he settled and turned over, slowed his heart and his mind by applying yogic breathing techniques. Blotting out his brain.

Was interrupted by his mobile chiming on the chest by the bed. He clicked his tongue in frustration, reached out, flipped it on.

The message simply read:

 **8.32pm: Eat. Sleep. MH**

Read. Tapped back a brief reply.

 **8.35pm: Trying to. Been interrupted. SH**

Smiled briefly to himself and dropped into an immediate and dreamless slumber.

o0o0o0o

The morning sun on his face woke him. The quietness was as much a luxury as the luxury in which he found himself. Rising up onto his elbow, he could see the gardens below were empty, and on impulse he showered and dressed in more casual clothes than were normally seen - levis, sweat shirt and trainers - and which the people who knew him would not even believe he owned. Might not even recognise him wearing them. But for now he did not have to wear the armour that made him Sherlock Holmes, and the knowledge of that carried it's own serenity and sense of release.

No-one knew precisely where he was apart from the Sondersuns, Bruhl and Matti. No-one expected him to be in Copenhagen. No-one had followed him. No-one accompanied him. He had no agenda, no time frame except the wedding in two days time

For once there was nothing and no-one demanding his time and attention and his resolution.

He drank fruit juice from the suite's fridge and finally left the building, alone and unnoticed.

The normal Sherlock Holmes might have jogged a couple of miles, or taken himself for a brisk walk as a tourist. But he was still too weak for those things, so strolled slowly around the gardens with his hands in his pockets, stopping frequently to rest and give every appearance of admiring the flower beds and the antique rides and park attractions.

He was sitting on a bench by a formal and extensive rose bed when the gardeners came on shift, and he watched them begin to work, aware that, for the time being, he had no work of his own.

He had done what he could to keep life flowing on a smooth course while he was away, and to contain the machinations of Charles Augustus Magnussen. He knew Mary Watson would do all she could to keep John Watson safe, and that everyone else should live their normal lives in the interim.

How easy it was to take normality for granted - and how hard to face life without it. But Magnussen would be a problem that would have to keep. Until he was fit again and capable of dealing with it. Better to delay now than to be defeated. Better to wait and to win.

He had accepted that now. And would move forward. Find himself and his health again. Restore the transport to what it had been. Then strike. He had no doubts. This was all just a matter of process.

And so it would begin.

He rose from his bench and went in to breakfast. The morning sun had warmed him, and the peace of the gardens had assured him. Eat, rest, exercise, sleep. And repeat. He knew what to do, and would do it. Until he was able to get back to being who he really was, and what he really did.

o0o0o0o

Peace. And being at peace. Lasted a day and a half.

In the middle of the afternoon of the day before Piet and Fredrick's wedding, his telephone rang.

He was in his usual place in the armchair by the sitting room window. Feet up on the windowsill, lounging down in an armchair, eyes drifting across the ever changing and always entertaining kaleidoscope that was the Tivoli Gardens.

If he was in the mood he would focus down on some of the individuals who walked by, deducing their history, their lives, their reasons for being where they were. The sort of observation he and Mycroft had indulged in from childhood, and had helped hone his skills.

The telephone, by habit, was within arm's reach as ever, on the side table. He watched it vibrate on the rosewood surface; frowned at it. No-one should be calling him. He had prepared his way very carefully to create a space to recover in. No-one should be needing him.

His hand reached out reluctantly. The caller identification said Kitty Haig.

For a moment he hesitated about whether or not to answer. Pondered the usual thing about how, if it was important enough, she would ring back. When it stopped he was as relieved as he was curious, now.

That lasted for the five seconds before it rang again. Kitty Haig again.

With a sigh and a slump of his shoulders he picked up the mobile and opened the line.

""Sherlock Holmes," he said with no inflexion whatsoever.

She did not speak. Because she was sobbing. He closed his eyes, already exhausted by it. Counted to five and said:

"Kitty. Can't help if you don't speak."

There was spluttering and sniffing down the line, and she eventually managed to say: " Put my resignation in today. He won't accept it. Says I'm not good but I am useful. And I am still the conduit to you he requires. I can't…." and the sobbing began again.

He took two deep reluctant breaths. Revenge for a retaliation, a broken finger, was this? He dragged his anger down and away before replying.

"Under employment law Magnussen has no option. Tell Dale, and Andrew, your new editor-to-be. Andrew will intercede and make waves."

The words 'and don't bother me with this now….' hung in the air above his head, written in neon lights and yet unspoken.

"Pull yourself together. Resubmit your resignation letter and this time send it by email, snail mail or internal post. Or all three. Speak to him in person again and you are lost again. He is too strong for you that way.

"Leave it with me for now. I will text you."

And he disconnected the call before she could reply. Rang Langdale Pike.

"Have you heard from Kitty?" Without preamble.

"No. What's happened?"

"Magnussen won't accept her resignation."

"How typical is that?"

"Andrew needs to make waves; editor to editor stuff."

"I agree."

"Andrew needs levers."

He took a breath and the silence on the line stretched while he thought and decided, and committed to what he knew had to be done.

"Sherlock?"

"Thinking." He looked upwards, but the ceiling held no inspiration. There was only one thing that would work.

" Tell Andrew…. Tell him the only way to fight fire is with fire. The only way to block a blackmailer is with blackmail."

"Yeah. I get that. What are you telling me?"

He exhaled. This was too much. Too soon. Too exposing. How many times lately - _just how many bloody times? -_ had he told other people that simple truth:

'You are never free of the blackmail until you are free of the blackmailer."?

Well. He knew that. He really did. So this was the time to prove it. And turn the tables.

"Dale…." he began. Faltered. "Andrew needs a lever. The best lever you can have is against Magnussen himself.

"Tell Andrew you have a photograph. A photograph of Magnussen committing non consensual sex with another man. A man drugged by Magnussen and his staff. And photographed by his staff during the assault. Tell Andrew. To tell Magnussen. It is the same photograph he keeps by his bed.

"Tell Andrew to say he will use this photograph against him. Unless he stops putting pressure on Kitty. Let's her go, gets her out of his clutches.

"That the man assaulted is willing to go to the police. See the photograph used in the press. Whatever is needed. For justice.

"But don't tell Andrew about File 3113. You have your own stories to develop from that. And Nick's notes are being worked on, investigated by the powers that be. Are doing exactly what Nick wanted them to do.

"They will finally bring Magnussen down. But if he is warned about that now he will react. Destroy evidence that can be used against him - or splash all his blackmail victims with exposing screamers and go out with a publicity storm the victims, and rulers of this country, will never recover from. Whether the blackmail stories are true or not. Revenge, devilment. Spite. Whatever.

"Do you understand me, Dale?"

There was a long breathless pause at the other end of the telephone.

"Does this photograph exist?"

"Yes, of course."

Have you seen it?"

"Oh, yes."

"Do you have it?"

"Not at the moment. I am not in hospital any longer, Dale. I am abroad, Recuperating. But I can get the photograph for you, if and when you really need it. It is not a lie, and nor is it a fake. And what's more, Magnussen knows that."

"OK, Sherlock, I get it." He thought for a moment, This was not the louche old journalist he knew; this was the attitude and voice of a hard newspaperman. And Sherlock was relieved by that. Not sentiment, not baulking the issue, not doubting. Just professionalism. The good principled journalist as opposed to the Magnussen style of power games and manipulation of truth and justice.

"What does the photograph show?"

"What the bloody hell do you think it shows?"

"Sherlock! I'm sorry, mate. But you know what I mean? I need to know so Andrew can describe…what he probably might not want to describe."

"Yes, yes, I know that. Sorry." He waited a moment until he could be sure his voice would be as level and detached as required.

"Two men on a white bed, full of pillows - just as you would expect. Magnusson - recognisable as himself. Hmn…..on top. The victim underneath on a fur rug. Held in position by other hands. Recognisable if you know who it is."

"Who is it?"

"I can't tell you that. Not unless you really need that photograph. Ot unless you really need to know. Enough to say it is not some anonymous Joe Public. It is someone who will be recognised. Magnussen will know that too.

"He thinks no-one knows about that photograph but him. And…and the other man. To be able to cite it, describe it, should be enough to make him back down."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Get Andrew to infer he knows more about a black Audi - and a man with a silver ponytail - than he is revealing. Regarding Nick. You think Andrew can do that?"

"Hey, he's a hard nose, old fashioned journalist. He'll relish it. Especially getting one over a creep like Magnussen."

"Good. Keep me informed."

"Will do. Thanks, Sherlock. Take care of yourself."

"I'm trying…."

When he ended the call he found he was having trouble breathing. Waited until he was calm before texting:

 **4.12pm: Job done. Resubmit resignation. It will now process. Check with Andrew or Dale. SH**

Within seconds a reply came back.

 **4.13pm: How can I ever thank you? And how did you do that? Talk to me! Love Kitty x**

He pursed his lips.

 **4.14pm: Not now. Convalescent. Only contact now if urgent need. SH**

He turned off the phone. Looked at it's blank screen. Threw it across the room where it bounced off his pillows and back onto the bed.

And he left it there.

o0o0o0o

Plain but pretty, the whitewashed village church with crow step gables and red pantiles rang to the sound of conversation and a Victorian harmonium. Very affecting. Very Scandinavian.

From his seat at the end of a long pine pew at the back of the church, Sherlock Holmes watched the proceedings and felt like a ghost.

He was surrounded by strangers speaking a strange language. And no-one knew him there, all other guests too well mannered to ask who he was and intrude upon his privacy.

Ari Sondersun and Ellie were there, being supporters to the marriage couple. Piet in his dark uniform and distinctive maroon beret with the badge bearing the hunter's bugle, the man's decoration ribbons. Fredrik composed and pale in formal frock coat and pinstripe trousers. Both elegant and handsome and committed.

The Church of Denmark service and exchange of rings served it's purpose, and was impressive for both it's simplicity and gravity. And afterwards the guests crossed the road to the elegant black and white timbered restaurant that had once been the village's manor house.

Sherlock hung back, relaxed but watchful, and oddly moved by the experience.

Crossing the lane between the two buildings, he found his name spoken, an arm slipped within his. Ellie Sondersun.

"So lovely to see you here," she greeted him, reaching up to whisper a kiss onto his cheek. "So pleased you could come. Do you know anyone here?"

He shook his head, and she steered him inside and to a place with his name card upon it down the length of the U shaped arrangement of tables. Already seated next to his placing was a tall elegant woman in her late thirties.

She wore a suit more smart than frivolous, black hair loose on her shoulders, a minimum of jewellery and a quizzical smile.

"You two are here on your own, so perhaps you would like to look after each other?" Ellie introduced without preamble. "Christina, this is our friend Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, our friend Christina Ravn."

Ellie squeezed his arm encouragingly. Knowing he would not welcome companionship. Tilted her head with a mischievous and contagious grin.

"And that's all I'm telling you! So deduce each other!"

And was gone.

Sherlock bowed a little, took the hand the woman called Christina Ravn proffered as he took his seat.

"So nice to see the police force represented when so many military people are here," he murmured. And she gave a low laugh.

"Tell me how you worked that out, Mr Holmes."

"Military bearing, but not excessively so; So ex forces but also in another formal career of authority; plain dressing, marks of kinks in your hair that show you usually wear your hair up, All clothes are brand new; as you would expect for a wedding. But for you even the false nails and eyelashes are brand new, too. Impressive.

"So you like things plain and simple, brand new stiletto shoes when you are more used to flats. A little groove on your finger where your wedding ring used to be. So you have been alone a while - a year perhaps? - but not long enough to be fully at ease alone. So Ellie wanted her friend to be escorted at the wedding reception.

"A tendency to blue indicates the police, and habit, and anyway, you have that indefinable air. You are high ranking, though, perhaps the Danish equivalent of a Detective Chief Inspector? And from the lie of your little fingers you are also a horse rider. Have I missed anything?"

"Not much. An interesting degree of accuracy, even at first glance. Do you want a job?"

"Why? Do you need a detective?"

"Is that what you are?"

"Yes. A consulting detective."

"Consulting on whose behalf?"

"Anyone who requires my services. But Scotland Yard, mainly."

"Impressive. And are you feeling quite well now?"

He quirked a silent question in her direction, and she laughed.

"I am an observer too, Mr Holmes. I can recognise the careful movement and the pallor of someone in physical recovery."

He bent his head and smiled at her then.

"Getting better. Slowly but surely. Thank you."

"And how long have you been out of hospital?"

"Four days." he answered after some thought. "But it feels longer."

"You've been ill?"

"I've been shot."

Something must have passed across his face, because she put a sympathetic hand on his arm. He looked at the long slim fingers but did not shake them off.

"I hope the perpetrator was caught, and you were not shot in vain?"

"You could say that," he replied.

At that moment the toastmaster called the reception to order. With everyone now seated, the meal passed on to the opening toast. Sherlock learnt that Danish weddings were more informal than English ones, with all the guests taking a turn to speak informally about the couple. To tell anecdotes, to sing songs, to eat and feast and celebrate.

Fredrik and Piet excused themselves from one very special Danish wedding tradition - having their ties cut short and the toes removed from their socks; "because neither of us need to prove what practical and clever needle workers we should be!" Fredrick joked.

Sherlock Holmes was sipping a glass of water when his attention was caught by one of the guests on the other side of the room. A tall elegant older woman in a dark fuschia coloured dress and wide brimmed hat.

"What have you seen?"

Christina Ravn was alert, eyes following his as she noted the sudden sharpening of his body language.

"Nothing. Just the general scene catching my eye. I have never been to a Danish wedding before," he excused himself. "Seen such…..happiness."

"You don't have to say that as if it chokes you," Christina Ravn said quietly. "No one here knows you, Sherlock Holmes. No-one is burdening you with expectation."

He looked at her as if he did not believe what she was saying. Or understood why she was saying it..

She patted him on the arm.

"Hard for you, is it? Looking on at happiness?"

"Happier looking on," he answered lightly.

"Poor you."

He ignored her. Continued to watch the woman in the fuschia pink outfit. But more covertly now.

As the meal was cleared away and the tables pushed back for dancing, he found himself a chair in a corner, seeing all, but hopefully unseen. He watched the wedding couple, Piet and Fredrick, relaxed and smiling. Ari and Ellie, happy and composed.

 _Worth the effort. Worth their happiness. Whatever that is. Whatever that means._

The fifty or so other guests; many of them military, several clearly family members. A handful more hard to categorise. And the mystery woman.

Christina Ravn appeared again at his side.

"Dance?" she asked, putting out a hand.

He looked at it, then up at her.

" I am only well enough to manage a slow waltz at best. Sorry."

"That's fine. I'll wait," she said. And hitched a hip onto the arm of his chair. Close, but not initiating intimacy. He could cope with that.

"Do please feel free to mingle. Or something. You don't have to stay with me."

"Like you, the only people I know here are the Sondersuns and Piet. Like you I prefer to watch."

He accepted that statement.

"Where are you from? Where are you based?"

"Aalborg. "

Something passed across the face of Sherlock Holmes. A memory. Of a mention of that city. Mention of Aalborg. Somewhere from a time past. Something connected…..

"Aalborg?" he echoed.

"Industrial city. Further north. Industry, opera, Piet's unit, the Jaegerkorps, is based there. That's how I know him. And also my home town."

 _Aalborg? Aalborg!_

"Sherlock? Sherlock? You OK?"

"Fine. I'm fine. Always fine." He looked at her with suddenly brilliant open eyes.

"Why were you introduced to me today? What is Ellie's plan?"

She registered something different in his body language; attention sharper, voice deeper.

"Plan? I don't know anything about a plan…."

"Hmn."

She smiled at him then. Stood and held both hands out to him.

"It's a slow waltz," she said, as the music changed.

They stepped into each other's arms. She was slim and almost as tall and he was. And she looked at him and smiled,

"Relax," she said. And he nodded silently as if to say: "I know."

The last woman he had danced with had been Janine. On the case. Chasing the Dixon Carrs. So much had happened since then. Good, bad and disturbing. He thought of Janine and hoped she was happy with her cottage on the Sussex Downs, the unexpected financial security off the back of her fictional kiss-and-tell. Looking for a new job that had nothing at all to do with newspapers, or threats, lying detectives or Charles Augustus Magnussen.

He waited for the beat, led off and she followed. They glided around the room in an automatic physical harmony unusual for either of them, and they both recognised that.

She leaned against him and felt the essence of him; frail that day, certainly, yet with a slim steely core to him that she recognised, a reserved and contained personality, carrying a scent of fresh air and expensive old fashioned cologne. And she relaxed.

This man, she recognised at some deep level of both personal and professional appraisal, this man she could trust.

Two circuits of the room, not speaking but both mentally poised, both apparently instinctively at ease with each other.

He saw Ari Sondersun coming in the opposite direction, his partner not Ellie, but the woman in fuschia pink.

Sherlock Holmes stopped dancing abruptly, and Christina Ravn almost fell over his feet.

He took one hand from Christina Ravn's waist and put out an arm. And touched the older woman.

"Good evening, Mrs Maggie Driscoll. How lovely to see you again so soon. So interesting that you also had business with my brother the other day.

"Do you want to tell me all about it?"

He watched her smile turn into a frown and then into a well mannered blankness.

He smiled at her then.

Whenever you're ready," he encouraged. And stood, And waited.

TO BE CONTINUED…..

 **Author's Notes:**

The Shakespeare character Sherlock references is Richard, Duke of Gloucester, later to become Richard III.

Although the island of Agnaro is fictional, Denmark has more than 400 small islands around it's coast, most of the smallest only recently becoming uninhabited due to the demands and commitments of modern life. The letter 'o' after the name indicates an island in Danish. Agnar is from the Old Norse and means warrior. Or the edge of a sword. Either most apt for the situation.

Matti's surname, Anker, means 'anchor' in English, and is a traditional Scandinavian surname (spelling variants depending on nationality) for families living close to, and working at, the sea.

As fantastical as it sounds, the Hotel Nimb in the Tivoli Gardens, Copenhagen, is a real extravaganza of a hotel, once experienced, never forgotten. Considered one of the most remarkable hotels in Denmark, it has just 17 bedrooms and is situated on the edge of the world's second oldest amusement park and gardens.

.


	30. Chapter 30

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 30: 'You were the rock….'

"Do you want to tell me about it? Whenever you're ready."

The voice of Sherlock Holmes at it's most peremptory.

The two couples stood and looked at each other. Ari Sondersun and Christina Ravn blankly.

The woman Sherlock named as Maggie Driscoll claimed back self control in a blink. Stepped forward - away from Ari and between Sherlock Holmes and his dance partner - picked up his hands as she stepped between them, and pulled him forward smoothly back into the waltz.

All done so smoothly and coolly an onlooker would barely even notice anything had happened.

They moved away from Ari and Christina. Six dance steps before either of them spoke.

"I didn't know you would be here," she said, looking up into puzzled grey eyes. "Fredrik and Piet organised everything themselves. When Ellie found out yesterday you were on the guest list, she was sure you would not come. Not that it should make any difference."

"Your daughter is a very astute woman."

"Like her mother," Maggie Driscoll risked a reassuring smile when he did not reply.

"It's OK, Mr Holmes. A tiny joke. Or should I call you Sherlock to separate you from your brother?"

"Sherlock is fine."

"Good." They danced on round a corner, naturally took a reverse turn in harmony together, and she complimented him on it.

"You dance well. Would not have expected it."

"I am full of surprises. As are you."

He was very erect. Very wary, his face guarded, a tiny frown wrinkled between his eyes.

"Relax, Sherlock. I am not your enemy. Not someone to attack or defend against. Quite the reverse in fact. You have been a great help to people close to me."

"As you are Ellie's mother, logic tells me that. But you were in Mycroft's office. And he took pains to stop me seeing you properly."

"Your brother is naturally Machiavellian. And not always to his advantage."

"I can't argue with that." He grinned then, despite himself, and she peered at him closely, fascinated by the transformation it wrought in him.

"Shall we take a rest now the music is changing? The polka is not exactly me."

"I do not need handling like a…." His hackles rose.

"You are still convalescent. Humour an old lady who perhaps finds a polka a tad undignified. Remember your manners, young man."

They sat at a corner of the otherwise deserted, but still dressed, top table, and she handed him a glass of champagne from a tray, taking one for herself.

"You have questions," she stated collectedly when they were settled. "Not that you should have any more. You are off the case."

"How do you know that?"

"It is not commonly known that a certain lady and I were graduate juniors in the diplomatic corps together. When she told me she had contracted you to solve a personal problem for her, I agreed you were probably the best operative to achieve a solution."

"But you are ….you are Magenta Rose. That is how Ellie got involved with…."

"A wise older gentleman who dealt fairly and kindly with the foibles of a too independently minded teenage girl and has been bothered by it ever since."

She sipped her bubbles and wrinkled her nose.

"What makes you think you know what Magenta Rose is? Or even that it has anything to do with me?"

Sherlock Holmes allowed himself a brief laugh.

"If you had not been wearing magenta at this very moment - or a colour these days most commonly called fuchsia - I may never have put two and two together. Or recognised you."

"Magenta is a colour I wear because it suits me."

"Indeed it does. It's an unusual colour for an adult and takes flair to wear as well as you do. Oh, I know the Danish Social-Liberal Party use it, and it is currently very trendy, but the important thing is that the Magenta colour dye was invented by a French chemist in 1859, named after an Italian town and a battle. Very appropriate.

"The clever chemist in question was called Francois-Emmanuel Verguin. But your maiden name was Fuchs. Marguerita Fuchs. And it was a sixteenth century botanist called Leonhardt Fuchs who created the fuchsia plant. And from which the colour was named.

"When you established Magenta Rose the name seemed an appropriate whimsy due to your political connections; and the fact that magenta is a colour blend of red and blue. I assume those links appealed to you and amused you? And the fact that in gay slang a fuchsia queen is a term for an attractive woman. Which you are.

"And here you are wearing this very colour at the wedding of your son in law's brother. As I said: whimsey."

He lifted his glass to her in salute.

"I don't think anyone else has ever worked all that out. You really are as exceptional as everyone tells me you are, Sherlock Holmes."

He accepted the compliment with an inclination of his head. Focussed his intelligence upon her. As she did him. An unusual mental duel for a wedding party, he thought fleetingly.

"Yes, I do know that. But thank you. What are your links to Magnussen? Apart from his attempt to destroy your daughter and everyone around her?"

"What do you think you know about Magenta Rose?" She ignored the question. And he let her; knowing they would return to the subject of Magnussen once he had proven his credibility to her.

"An escort agency with strong political links to Parliament, to government. Undoubtedly finds and balances more political secrets than any Chief Whip or MI5 agent.

"Because your agency is an information first source. And that is because of you, the circus ringmaster."

"Indeed? Continue your reasoning."

He frowned. Looked at her. Thought fast.

"You are a part of the process. Part of the circus. An offshoot of MI5, then."

"I would, of course, deny such a ridiculous idea if you asked me that question."

"Indeed? So you have a wider SIS remit, then. Public face, private purpose. An interesting and highly plausible juggling act."

"As someone such as you might like to think."

"So teenage Ellie only knew - and made use of - the public face. The public role."

"Such information was not my daughter's affair; specially at the age she was then. But she was always a precocious and over independent child. Stood her in good stead in later life, as you know," she smiled to herself, proud of her daughter, he realised.

"Magenta Rose is unique, and thereby serves a very useful purpose. An above the board escort agency: official companionship for gentlemen and ladies of importance. Escorts of discretion with interesting…..other skills and intelligences, shall we say? Undoubtedly so."

"And a high class service of - well - service?"

"When required. It is a little known fact that, among other merits, the SIS is one of the top employers in the UK of women and also those in the LGBT community. It is a catalyst and reflector. And so uniquely positioned."

"Hmn."

He thought about what Maggie Driscoll was, and was not, telling him. She nudged his elbow to encourage him to sip his drink.

"Magnussen. Second time of asking," he prompted.

She shrugged.

"When he first appeared on the British media scene there was a disquietening lack of profile. Which is always suspicious, I think you will agree. Just whispers. But he received a basic screening from our friends across the river. Seemed OK overall. Better than some, no worse than others. But an eye is always kept on foreign media moguls - of which we have so many, these days; their increasing levels of influence and power."

She sipped her drink. Scanning the crowd, gently smiling. To anyone watching they were merely two wedding guests chatting quietly. Social chat. Nothing of import.

"He seemed well mannered, always ultra calm, normal. But then his empire grew far too quickly to be natural: and no-one whose companies he took over would say a word afterwards.

"Usually with takeovers everything is in clear, and out there on spreadsheets. Or someone is disgruntled and tells tales…the silences surrounding Magnussen's rapid rise through the media ranks was becoming unusual. Like invisible factors negative in their own right. You understand?"

"I understand."

"He has never used the services of Magenta Rose; before you ask. Clients would mention him periodically - but it was all just smoke and whispers. However - the silences, the lack of gossip along with the amount of influence; well, some things never added up."

"Extortion? Blackmail?"

"The normal conclusion. In the last couple of years we have had a few political scandals that have caused resignations, knock on effects into the City. Splash headlines and capable people always considered trustworthy unexpectedly toppled. Nothing directly linking to Magnussen, nothing anyone would admit, anyway. But a niggle, a common name always dancing on the edges, as it were; a little something always there…..he was starting to suddenly look always too close to the action, so careful and controlling."

"I know."

"And then the sudden focus on ….a certain gentleman of our acquaintance. Too much of a coincidence that his wife chairs….certain bodies…. that could and should be interested in the actions of this Danish gentleman.

"And of course our own Danish gentlemen were connected also. If you knew the connections and how to make them…." her voice trailed away as she looked fleetingly at Fredrick and Piet, laughing amid a group of friends. "Including, of course, the brother of my son in law. As well as my daughter. Striking a bit too close to home to be coincidental, wouldn't you say?

"The way Magnussen was stacking up people in a line; well, the next one to join the line was likely to be me. Yes?"

He nodded. A logical conclusion.

"So I was then more than interested in Magnussen myself. And I found my masters also had their ears to the ground about him. Including your brother. One of my boys in the know started picking up rumours about Magnussen. Whispers of a past. His publishing roots in porn magazines. A taste for non-con sex. Somnophilia. Necrophilia. Distasteful, whatever. So attention started to sharpen, shall we say."

"Which Magnussen got wind of," Sherlock continued for her. "And suddenly a mutual acquaintance was being targeted. Along with your daughter. Obvious reasons - to distract, manipulate and warn you all off topic."

"Quite so."

"And then someone mentioned my name?"

"Not exactly. Your brother found Magnussen's name slipping into his own portfolio, as it were. He is rather good as dealing with the enemy, as I am sure you are aware.

"But my friend thought you were a better proposition in her case. Would keep the issue discreet and private. Having known you both as children. Please read that preference as the compliment intended." She paused, half smiled, looked at him meaningfully until he nodded recognition of that. Continued.

"She had her own interests to protect as well as those of our masters. You being such an effective and successful free agent, and….."

She hesitated, and looked away from him.

"And what?"

"My whispers concerning Magnussen infer that he might, shall we say, ….be more amenable to you. Handsome. Highly intelligent. Highly controlled yet individualistic. Which would give you a toehold to allow interference."

He found himself blushing, unexpected and unbidden.

"Quite so. And you call my brother Machiavellian?"

She nodded at him. Acknowledgement and apology both.

"If it is any reassurance, now I have met you, I recognise for myself the attraction you would exert on a man like Magnussen. Physically as well as intellectually. Plus that certain extra…something you have within you."

She smiled at him in a moment of true warmth and then shrugged, as if recognising the wicked ways of the world anew.

"The word on Magnussen was becoming more intense. Action needed. The situation my friend had found herself involved with suddenly became the tip of an iceberg.

"You investigated and revealed a good deal. Scotched a complete domino fall of important and influential people Magnussen had planned to topple."

"Jack, Ellie and Ari, Fredrick and Piet. And others, shall we say? And leave it at that for the time being?"

"Quite so. You turned over more stones in a week…." she hesitated.

"And was paid off like a lackey before my commission was completed," he finished bitterly for her.

"You were shot." She stated with finality.

"Therefore?"

"Being shot was not your fault. But it is a factor. You did all you could and more."

"I have not stopped him."

"You set the ball rolling. Investigation takes place. He will appear before the Select Committee again. And be questioned harder this time. Slow but sure. You know how the wheels of government work. You achieved a good deal - more than anyone else. Be content."

"Why should I? That won't make enough difference. Or in time. He can run rings around people, round formal process, and he will. He needs stopping now."

"Not by you. You are unwell."

"You are never rid of the blackmail until you are rid of the blackmailer."

She leant forward, took his free hand and squeezed it.

"You are off duty. Sick leave, if you prefer. Disengage. Enjoy the wedding. One thing at a time. Your first priority is to get well again."

"Sound advice. Thank you, Mrs Driscoll."

He stood, bent over her hand, his lips brushed her fingers, his eyes met hers.

"But when you are back home….." she said quietly, almost as if speaking despite herself. "Come to me if you need anything, Sherlock Holmes. I think this is a particular problem you grasp better than your brother. For many particular reasons.

"Problems you may yet solve regardless, even if you have obstructions to bypass. Making people safe and delivering justice is what you do. And I thank you for helping my family and my friends. Assume I owe you."

He looked sharply at her, and her hazel eyes smiled into his. She did not say Ellie Sondersun's name. She did not say Mycroft Holmes' name, nor that of the Smallwoods. But they both knew who she meant. And what her offer inferred.

He rose to leave her then, but she caught his hand, pulled him down and ghosted a social kiss onto his cheek.

"Remember where I am," she said. "And that I am an ally."

o0o0o0o

The motor launch butted through the choppy grey sea and Sherlock Holmes stood in the footwell of the open stern, clutching a grab handle and turning his face into the spray and relishing the sensation.

Matti Anker handled the little boat as easily as he handled the Saab, and the tiny island of Agnaro was before them across the sound.

At the simple landing stage Sherlock automatically stepped off and moored the little boat with a quick release tumble hitch knot, while Matti unloaded luggage and supplies. Allowing Sherlock to carry nothing heavier than the violin case and the laptop carry bag.

The blue painted wooden cottage was over 100 years old, yet looked fresh and bright, well cared for. It was tucked into a small stand of pine trees by the shoreline facing the mainland, the heart of the tiny three acre uninhabited island; which was otherwise mainly just scrub and sand.

They walked through the clearing to the cottage, crossed the simple veranda, and Matti unlocked the front door.

A sitting room, two bedrooms, a kitchen and tiny bathroom. Brackish water piped and fine for washing; bottled water for drinking. An eco toilet and the bare necessities of antique artisan furnishing.

"You will be OK here?" Matti asked.

"Perfectly. Exactly what is needed."

Matti gave him an assessing look. Showed him how to work the generator, the water pump. The wood burning stove. Showed him how to operate the panic alarm and the invisible laser light security system that kept the house secure "connects to the local police base. A helicopter can be with you in 12 minutes in an emergency."

Showed him the secret storage place under the kitchen floor. The sub machine gun and pistol tucked away there "in case of need. Piet says you know how to handle them if necessary." And Sherlock Holmes nodded, and understood, and recognised real life when he saw it, even when at a family holiday retreat, for a man like Piet Bruhl.

The food stowed in the pantry, the promise of a weekly visit from his uncle Ulf to restock as needed, and Matti was gone, with a wave and a handclasp.

Sherlock Holmes stood on the porch and watched the little boat disappear. The mainland and civilisation was only twenty minutes away, but he could so easily be on another planet.

And he vowed to himself not to use the small launch under a tied down tarpaulin; he did not intend to want to escape.

The silence reached out and enveloped him, and he breathed deeply, for what seemed the first time in months. Or years. No madness here, no hospital. No spies or controls. No people.

All he could hear was the quiet tumult of the waves on the little shore, the occasional cry of birds.

He made himself a cup of tea and sat with it in an armchair facing the window.

Drank deeply, put the mug carefully on the floor. Pulled a rug over his knees. Tucked his head into the chair wing and slept without even realising he was tired. He slept the clock round. And woke refreshed. Not attacked. Still alive. No agenda, no appointments, no problems.

He woke, and stretched. And went back to sleep.

o0o0o0o

That first day set a pattern. Food, rest, exercise. Music and reading. He had never needed company or friends. The isolation suited him, and was the best antidote to damage and depression.

There was not much island to explore, but explore he did, walking further and faster every day. Circuits of his little domain. Jogging, finally, and then running. Swimming in the cold northern sea.

He was aware that others would not recognise this behaviour as the Sherlock Holmes they thought they knew. But he had been born a country child. Could make fires, chop wood, catch rabbits, paunch, skin and cook them.

Had never been a Boy Scout, but had learnt his skills from more interesting experts; gamekeepers and poachers and Romany gypsies.

And he could swim then laze and read in the shade of trees before a golden autumn sun.

Had done none of those things for years. Relished the opportunity to do them again now. It was enough, he thought, and was calm. Piet Bruhl's island was the perfect refuge in which to recover. He could also appreciate what a perfect bolthole this place was for all his extended family.

But every evening he set the laser security system so he could finally rest without the memory of Dean Dixon Carr haunting his sleep and his awakening.

For here on Agnaro there was no-one to hear or to care if he woke up screaming, or in a cold sweat. Or had to walk a circuit of the island in the dark hours to calm the hammering of his heart. For he suffered and endured and told himself that reaction would pass.

He was just weak and in recovery. He was just damaged and would mend, he assured himself. Time and tide did their best. And he began to quieten his mind and to fit his skin again.

o0o0o0o

He had not wanted visitors, but the first one arrived unannounced on Ulf's little boat with the food supplies. And he laughed when he saw.

For the visitor brought a very particular bag of supplies and a chocolate cake in a tin.

Mrs Hudson stayed for a weekend. Walked the island with him. Baked scones and showed him how to make them, how to make pancakes and drop scones and Yorkshire puddings, and all that could be done with one simple basic recipe of flour, eggs and milk.

Thy made those things together across the oil cloth covered kitchen table, talked and laughed, and Sherlock Holmes had a vision of what other childhoods than his own may have been like and what he had missed.

In London he may have Martha Hudson on semi permanent mute, but on the island they shared conversation and silence in equal measure, and both were rested and soothed by it.

Neither of them mentioned death or destruction, Mycroft or John Watson. No-one spoke of shooting or nightmares, and Mrs Hudson never even asked him how he was. And he was pleased at that: perhaps how he looked now told it's own story of recovery.

She left him with a hug and a wave, and a fruit cake they had made together. Which went well with a morning cuppa.

He was reviving. Adjusting. Getting stronger. And watching autumn turn.

He was running circuits of the island along the sandy shoreline when the clatter of a helicopter disturbed the peace of Agnaro.

He broke stride then turned immediately into the cover of the trees. Watched, heart racing. No proper hiding place, no weapon to hand.

But when he saw who stepped from the helicopter after it landed, he released his tension in a huff of breath and was more than irritated.

"What are you doing here?"

"On my way to a meeting, brother mine. A delight to see you, too."

Eyes fixed on each other, they paused, still twenty yards apart.

"You could have told me you were coming."

"So you could take avoiding action? I don't think so. Obliged to check you are alive and well. Which you palpably are, although deplorably underdressed."

Mycroft Holmes curled an offended lip to view his brother, windswept and unshaven, open necked polo shirt stained with sweat, jeans rolled up to the knee, barefoot and sea sprayed.

"If you responded to emails and texts, I would not be here. Checking on you physically. We shall talk later, perhaps. In the meantime, I have a delivery for you. Four hours until my return. Make the most of them."

As he spoke another man clambered from the rear seats of the cockpit. Sherlock Holmes looked then turned away to hide his surprise and anger at the presence of another newcomer.

"What are you doing here?" he asked again.

"Good to see you, too."

John Watson , clutching a bag, stood on the beach before him. Just a carrier bag, not an overnight bag, Sherlock Holmes observed with relief.

"What's he doing here?" he turned to his brother, who upturned his hands in nonchalant, affected response.

"He kept bothering me for news about you. As if I am a post office and you are his misplaced parcel."

"Heard worse," Watson remarked, off hand. "But he still talks as if I'm not here. Brought lunch," he added, and brandished his bag.

"Four hours," Mycroft Holmes repeated.

"So you have a meeting nearby," Sherlock Holmes processed his thoughts aloud. "Aalborg is nearby. You are going to Aalborg? A security meeting with Piet, then? At _Jaegerkorps_ headquarters?"

"You may assume that, but I could not possibly confirm or deny."

"Stop this, Mycroft! If you were less secretive, or ever confided in me, I would not have ….would not be like this!"

"Your responsibility, brother mine. You know the constricts of my position."

"Don't I just?"

The bitter reply drew no response. Mycroft Holmes turned away and back to the helicopter.

The two men left on the beach silently watched the noisy, draughty take off and then wheel away before cautiously looking at each other. Neither wanting to give anything of themselves away.

"Again. What are you doing here?"

"Nothing better to do this weekend."

"Being with your new bride would be good."

"Manners not improved any, I see."

John Watson flashed him a look and started to walk up to the house. As he came past him Sherlock Holmes resisted the strong temptation to grab his arm and turn him away, keep the interloper from his refuge.

Stood back for a moment, fleetingly defeated and at a complete loss, and watched John Watson enter his home. Realised he had no option but to follow.

When he finally and reluctantly entered the house, his visitor had found the kitchen and was standing by the sink, looking towards the sea view, taking items from the bag.

"Just something simple. Didn't want to tax our joint cooking abilities," Watson said with a smile in his voice without looking round. "Lasagne and garlic bread, a tub of fresh fruit salad. Nourishing, not clever."

"Rather like you then."

The words came out flatter, angrier, than he had intended. But Watson still did not turn or seem to pay any heed.

Checking the LPG canister dial that fuelled the stove, turning on the oven, putting the lasagne foil container on a baking tray, finding another tray for the garlic bread, damping the tops of the baguettes, putting them aside. Finding plates to warm, the drawer with cutlery. John Watson was quietly occupied, and Sherlock Holmes watched him blankly, silenced by a tumult of unidentifiable reactions.

 _I don't like this. Why don't I like this? The surprise? Dealing with people again after all these weeks? Dealing with John Watson? Dealing with John Watson when in determined army captain mode? When he demands immediacy and honesty and facts?_

"It's nice here," John Watson said mildly. "How long are you staying?" he paused and turned then, hands full of cutlery and condiments to put on the table. "Staying and hiding?"

"I'm. Not. Hiding." Words torn with difficulty from the subconscious.

 _What am I saying?_

"'Course not. But how long are you staying?"

"Could be forever. Peace and quiet. No stress. Appealing."

 _Say it offhand. Hide that vain ambition to achieve some sort of peace. But that's what I'm saying._

"And what about The Work?"

"What about it?"

"The Work is you. Without The Work - will you even exist?"

There was no possible answer. To the words or the ironic tone. He was silent and perturbed. He backed away from all of it, was stopped by the wall.

 _Back to the wall. Oh, excellent. What a cliché. Say something. Anything!_

"Of course. I'm not a lost parcel."

 _Ridiculous thing to say. Utterly ridiculous. Clearly I'm still not well. Less well than I thought._

"Yes, you are. Mycroft was quite right. Even if he didn't realise it when he said it. You are a large contained object wrapped up in thick brown paper, tied tight with string, no-one knowing what is inside. Lost parcel. Yes."

"Don't."

"Don't what? Talk to you? Chivvy you? Poke you with a pointed stick to find where it hurts?" John Watson, having laid two place sittings as he spoke, now leant his empty hands on the table, his body weight on his hands. Looked up into his friend's face. "Treat you like a human being?"

 _How many times must I ask? Why is no-one listening to me? Apart from me?_

"What are you even doing here?"

"Sherlock, deny it as much as you like, but I am your friend. Always your friend."

 _Oh, for God's…..!_

"So? You were supposed to stay away. Like any friend would if asked. I said I would see you at Christmas."

"It's a long time until Christmas. Didn't contact you, did I? Like you'd said….but was worried. A bit."

" So you went to Mycroft? Hardly a good move."

"Oh, I dunno. Got me here, didn't it? No-one else knows I'm here, do they? We are due a conversation, don't you think? "

"No."

"Yes, we are."

 _No, we're not. Oh, Christ. Yes-no interlude. Playground level exchanges now._

John Watson turned away and checked the thermostat on the oven. Leaned against the sink and turned back.

"It's easier to talk here; don't you think? Neutral ground. Pleasant spot. No interruptions. And you looking so different to your usual self. Makes it easier."

"Ridiculous remark, John. I am always me."

"And which 'me' is that?" John Watson looked him up and down. Assessing. Sherlock Holmes could not read his thoughts, and was disconcerted by that.

 _John, please stop this. I'm not ready._

"I'm looking at a Sherlock Holmes I don't know. Scruffy, windswept, sweaty, desperate for a wash and a shave. Wind burnt, not even wearing shoes. "

"So what?"

"You look human. For a change."

"Another ridiculous remark. Why are you saying these things?"

"Wish Molly was here. She would make you understand. And she would love to see you like this. She's always saying how gorgeous you are." John Watson's grin was tolerant, amused, even a little superior.

"Why have you been talking to Molly about me? What has she said?"

His voice was sharp with fear, and John Watson heard that, quirked a puzzled frown at him.

 _Molly knows too much. Rescued me at Kitty's. Tested me. Checked me for….everything. Has seen all of me. Naked, hurting. Emptied. Would she tell John? Thinking I would want him to know? Knowing she would want him to know? What does he know? And how mortified should I be?_

 _Does he know? Would Mycroft tell him? Or Kitty? Lestrade? Does Sally Donovan know? If Sally knows all the Yard will know. About how far down the Freak can go. Has gone._

"She hasn't said anything to me. About you. Sometimes I wish she would, because I feel as if I'm fumbling through fog around you these days.. Good God, Sherlock. She kept your secret about being alive for two years. She would never blab about you. Even to me. So, no. You have to tell me this yourself."

" Tell you what? Why are you talking like this? I don't understand…."

 _I'm panicking. I can't do this. Stoptitstopitstopit….._

"I can't stop thinking about what you said - about what Magnussen did to you. I'm….hurt for you. Can't understand how you deal with that."

"Yes you can. It's who I am. What I do. I wish I'd never told you what happened. If I hadn't been weak, and in shock …"

 _Am I really as irritable and feeble as I sound? Or does it sound worse listening to this from inside my own brain?_

John Watson tilted his head, his very silence asking too many questions his friend did not want to answer.

"That's a natural reaction to an awful situation, Sherlock," he replied gently. "It's how you lock it inside you that's not."

"It is to me. You know it is. All my life - _all my life_ \- I have put everything that hurts me away in my Mind Palace. In a special room with the door locked on everything that hurts, and then walk away from it. "

Eyes were burning into John Watson's. But Watson could not look away and did not reply. And so the words ran on..

"I lock them away and forget them. Mycroft taught me how when I was little. It protects me."

 _Shut up. Go away. Shut up. I must shut up too. Before I say something stupid, Something revealing._

"You poor bugger." John Watson shook his head. Sherlock Holmes saw the movement in his peripheral vision and blocked it out. It hurt like a physical blow.

"Not even you can do that with rape, Sherlock. Too invasive an abuse. An abuse that lives and breathes and breeds, and never leaves you."

He paused and put out a hand, but drew it back when it was ignored with a heated sort of angry blankness.

"Put rape in a darkened room on it's own and it doesn't go away. It grows larger. Like….like mushrooms. Black mould. Pus. Overwhelms and poisons you."

"Very poetic. You must have read that in a book. Or some medical training manual. Stop it."

Sherlock Holmes' voice was scornful, but his friend ignored that. For how often did he hear that tone of voice, that arrogant, isolating sneer?

"No. I really can't. You need daylight on this. To shrivel it up. Put it in it's place - and behind you. Let people who love you help you for a change."

"Pathetic. I don't do help."

"It's not pathetic, you idiot. It's human. You are human."

"Stop it."

 _Stopitstopitstopit…._

"They call it talking therapy. Tried to get me at it - after Afghanistan. After I was shot. Oh - I couldn't talk, either. Didn't matter in the end. Because I got lucky - found you instead. You with your sharp tongue and superior brain, all snarls and sniping and bloody rude most of the time.

"But you cured me, Sherlock. Stopped me limping and hurting and fearing and wanting to kill myself …."

"By making you kill someone else instead. Aversion therapy, was it?" The sarcasm in the voice was acid.

"Yeah. Not a therapy for everyone, I admit, but it worked for me. I got you, and you saved me. Now it's my turn to save you."

 _No, that's not….that's….too…..oh….._

"Don't need saving. Or talk. Even if it is supposed to work magic these days: 'Let's have a little chat, Sherlock. Good boy!' Pathetic. And you took a day trip with my brother across Europe for this? Totally unnecessary."

"As necessary as breathing."

"Drop it, John."

"Drop it be buggered. We have spent too long since you leapt off the roof at Bart's not talking, misunderstanding each other. That stops now. So talk, Sherlock - off the record to me - or talk to Mycroft formally. Minuted and taped as part of the parliamentary investigation. Your choice."

John Watson watched his friend groan, and rock against the wall. Hardened his heart.

A mumble of angry words

"Mycroft is behind this."

"Only to help."

."You're a bigger fool than I thought you were if you seriously believe that." Scorn and disillusionment burned deep in the voice and the mind. But Watson stood fast.

"I do. And so should you. You know the process, even if you don't like it. So tell me. Quickly. Get it over with. Come and sit."

He stepped forward and took Sherlock Holmes' arms. Tugged the younger man until he followed. Sat him down at the table. Not letting go, John Watson sat down opposite, hands still firmly gripping narrow wrists across the tabletop. As if expecting him to run away.

"Now just talk."

Sherlock Holmes looked at John Watson and closed his eyes.

"Why? It will achieve nothing. Mycroft already knows. He has the photographs after all."

"What photographs?"

"Photographs of me being…attacked. He hasn't told you? Shown you? How remiss of him. You would both find them entertaining, I'm sure."

"Sherlock….."

"All right!" Watson watched Sherlock Holmes gather his self control and memory. Continue more calmly: "I went to Appledore to break in, raid those vaults. Got caught and drugged. Lost twelve hours. Woke up on Kitty Riley's doorstep. Molly rescued me. Tested me positive. She will confirm."

"Positive for the rape, you mean?"

"Positive for drugs. Rape? What rape?" His face twisted into a travesty of a smile. "The rape kit showed nothing. A professional job, John. I was bathed and all those naughty little orifices of my body stuffed full of soap and antiseptic. Which offended me more than the attack, actually. Bathed, handled, a different abuse. A joke, was it? Proving a point? Hilarious, eh?"

"Sherlock….."

"You asked. Deal with what you asked for." He looked across at his friend with hot angry eyes. Words burning out of him like flames in a fire. " You want to know if I remember? I didn't. Woolly impressions, like dreams. My body hurt. Flashes of memory. It all came back. Bit by bit."

"How did…."

"….I cope? How I always cope. Anger and humiliation fuel me. Experiences of my past taught me how to deal with Magnussen. Letting him ravage and humiliate, bite me and use me - that showed me the man. So I channel my anger and knowledge to get a result."

His eyes on John Watson's were compelling. It was rare to see those unusual opal eyes burning with anger and passion, Watson could not decide if he was appalled or transfixed. Or just overwhelmed by such rare emotional fire. The very personal horror behind what he was hearing.

"He raped me to demonstrate his power. He likes doing that. I think his pleasure was unexpected …incidental, I suppose. But it's backfired on him. Now I fascinate him. What a joke. His desire to possess my body and dominate my mind gives me the upper hand. So I offer him the delight of using me to postpone him using you, or Mary. Going after Mycroft. Do you see?"

"Sherlock, stop flaying yourself. You don't have to do this…."

"Yes I do. This is how I will win, John. The only way. I promise him a weekend sexually humiliating me as his reward for sparing you, for holding back until I am well again. I use his lust for me, and the power his rape gives me - _me_ , not him - as my lever to beat him with.

"Because when I am at Appledore for that pleasure I shall destroy his vaults and his power. Make Mary and the others safe. And that thought drives me on.

"I know what I am doing." He leant forward across the table, making supercilious air quotes with his hands as he spoke." I don't need 'talking therapy', or emoting. I don't need to 'get it out of my system' or 'feel better' or 'express myself' or any of that crap..

"Pain and being alone is what makes me better, makes me achieve more. Surely you know that about me?" He stood up abruptly, started to walked away.

"I don't need to talk about it. I've already said too much. I told you I would disgust you. didn't I?. And now I have. Who would want a depraved warped person like me for a friend? But I'm not apologising. "

"Sherlock! You can't do this. Not even for Mary and me."

John Watson also stood in reaction, crossed the room in three strides and caught Sherlock Holmes in the doorway. Hung onto his arm and spun the taller younger man to face him.

"You can't stop me, John. So get back in that helicopter and go away. Leave me alone."

"As if it's that simple. You ask too much of yourself. Even for you."

He held onto the arm he had captured, and willed Sherlock Holmes to look at him. But the consulting detective was looking over his head and beyond him, at horizons far away, Watson attempted to call him back and face him.

"When I saw you as we approached the island in the helicopter….running along the beach, looking full of life and energy, I was thrilled for you. Thought you were better. Then we landed and I saw you properly - like I've never seen you. Casual, windswept, sweaty, needing a bath and a shave. Looking human, for once. Human and attractive and full of life.

"You're not ordinary, like me. You are special, Sherlock. I've always known that. But I suddenly saw what it is in you Molly adores. What Janine saw in you. What all the fans and the gay boys see. And I'm not even gay. But I suddenly saw all that from the outside instead of being up too close as I usually am.

"I also know the real you too well. And you're not better, are you?"

 _I must stop this. Stop him._

"Shut up, John. I'm fine."

"You always say that, and I always ignore it. But you're not fine." He took a deep breath, and tightened his hand on the arm. Sherlock Holmes jerkily turned his head very slowly and looked at his arm as if it belonged to someone else.

 _This is enough. Too much now._

"Take your hand off me, John. Leave me alone."

"Come on, Sherlock. Talk to me properly. Stop being that little lost parcel! All buttoned up and closed in and wrapped up in brown paper. I prefer the other version. This version. Scruffy, tatty, a bit smelly. Human."

He tried a joke; just a little one. But Sherlock Holmes scowled.

 _How can I stop this? Stop him. Thinking he is helping when he is undermining and destroying._

"Stop this sentimental rubbish. I don't need this."

"Yes you do, You're an idiot as geniuses go. Do you know that? You need to stop being snide and snotty and imperious all the time. The Sherlock of the sharp suits and sharp cheekbones and sharp comments. You need to relax and be ordinary sometimes. Teased, and complimented and shouted at. Be an idiot for me. Human and supported and just loved. Everyone deserves to be loved. Yeah. Even you."

 _Oh. Oh. Yes, of course. The only way to stop him picking me apart like this…._

He watched Sherlock Holmes' head rear backwards, watched his top lip curl in distaste, and realised that out of affection and concern he had somehow said the wrong thing. But he did not know what. Not how, or why, and could not call those words back.

"Love? Oh, please. You think you know me so well, yet you haven't a clue, have you?" His voice was so acid it made Watson flinch under the assault." You talk about love as if it is something that is even in me. How can you think that?" He pulled a hard breath, positively vibrating with sudden anger. Clenched his fists.

John Watson braced himself for a blow.

"You think you love me do you? Come on - prove it, then. Come out and just fuck me, John. You know you want to."

Whatever John Watson had expected, it was not that. Nor how something in the air changed so swiftly between them. They were standing so close now that Watson could feel Sherlock Holmes' breath in his hair, on his cheek. Could smell the dirt and the sweat on him. And was suddenly fearful, because this was not the Sherlock Holmes he knew.

The Sherlock Holmes he knew was ascetic and scrupulously physically distant, congenitally neat and clean, always smelt of fresh air, Wright's Coal Tar soap, expensive cologne.

This was different. This was an unknown, animalistic Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock Holmes - the prescient, hyper alert Sherlock Holmes - saw the doctor register that and grow uncomfortable. And he smiled. To Watson it seemed the unhurried possessive smile on the face of a tiger, a predator.

"That's sexual tension, John. Can you feel it? You and me. Everyone has always assumed we are at it like rabbits. So why not, John? You're already disgusted with me, so you can do this thing and be even more disgusted then. That's what you need."

Sherlock Holmes curved a large lean hand gently round his friend's jaw and then held him captive in his touch; captured, disturbed and transfixed.

" Let me take you to the heights and the depths, John. See me for what I really am."

Fear and fascination fought for dominance in John Watson's heart. Mongoose and cobra, he thought fleetingly…then stopped thinking altogether.

" You're sleeping in the spare room at home. Not getting any. Want me instead? I'm good at this, John. Used to make a living at it. All the kinks and tricks you can think of. Good enough for Magnussen, good enough for you. I can give you back in kind everything I owe you, my friend."

The baritone turned into a low seductive purr. "Come on, John. We've time before Mycroft comes back. And he can hardly take us by surprise and catch us at it with the noise of that bloody helicopter to warn us…"

For the briefest second the older man leant into the touch, seduced by the voice, the glimmering eyes, the body curving around his. Used to following where Sherlock Holmes led, used to doing his bidding.

He looked up and their eyes met. Watson looked at the tiny brown fleck over the right iris that did not always show. Looked deeper, saw something moving, struggling, behind those unique alien and all seeing eyes. And saw something awful of strain and despair in the set lines of the face bending suddenly and so seductively down to his.

Put his hands up and onto Sherlock Holmes' concave, almost skeletal chest - a jolt of fear to feel all the bones - and shoved him suddenly and violently backwards away from him.

"Sherlock! No!"

Taken by surprise and off balanced, Sherlock Holmes slammed into the wall behind him, bounced off it, grinned horribly with challenge and determination, and came forward again. Watson, soldier and doctor, was suddenly physically scared.

"Oh, OK. So you want a bit of rough? As befits a soldier's tastes, of course. Yes: I can do that for you. Anything for you…." and he stepped in close, too close, arms rising to hold, to take Watson into an embrace.

Without conscious thought, a hard fist rose and struck, and there was the sharp crunch of contact as the taller younger man dropped straight down to the floor.

Eyes wide in reaction and surprise, John Watson rubbed his sore knuckles with his other hand, saw with a sort of horror the empty eyes, the trickle of blood he had caused bubbling through slack lips, and tore the kitchen door open and was out of the little house like a rocket.

Half a dozen strides down the beach he wavered and stopped. Bent, hands on knees to catch his breath. Swore hard for a couple of minutes as if he was still in the army. Sucked in breath and gathered his calm and his determination together and turned to go back the way he had come.

The recuperating consulting detective had remained, just as he had left him, motionless and half kneeling, half sitting on the floor in the corner of the kitchen. Dry eyed, blank faced. A trickle of blood on his cheek and down his chin, where the force of the blow had caused him to bite through his bottom lip, dripped onto the polo shirt.

"You bloody lunatic. You've done it to me again. Anything to change the bloody subject, anything to turn the real conversation away from the heart of you. You really had me going there you utter sod. Had me fooled."

He crossed the kitchen in three tight, furious strides. Stood looking down at the man he had struck to the ground. And all the anger dissolved.

"But I'm not going to let you abuse and abase yourself just because you think all you deserve is to be some sex toy. Because something in your mad head makes you think you are failing, weak, useless. I will kill you before I let you do that. You total arse. Are you listening to me?

After a pause of some seconds, the bent head moved a little and silver eyes glanced his way.

"You hit me. Again." No anger or upset, nor accusation. Just reflecting the fact.

"Yeah. Sorry." The doctor looked down, shrugged an apology.

"But: _again_ , John." An impatient, almost disbelieving, whine.

"You do know you deserve it, don't you? Coming on to me like that? How long do you think I could have resisted you?"

"Not long. I do whatever is needed to win. You know that. Sorry."

Watson caught the glimmer of a smile. And something hard and hollow within him shifted and filled itself with a feeling impossible to define. Except that it felt better than it was.

Moved then. Stepped forward, turned with his back to the wall and slid down it to sit cross legged next to his friend, Close, but not touching.

"Sherlock, I am used to you thinking like a computer, behaving like a robot. But there are times when you get the bit between your teeth and you are like a runaway train. Need stopping for your own good. This was one of those times."

A sigh. The hand wiped across the mouth came away with blood upon it. The injured party seemed not to notice and left the blood there, absently looking at it.

"Nor for you to judge. My problem to solve."

"Not alone, though. Not now. I am your friend. Colleague. Assistant. Well - only part time, these days, but still; you do what you can….." he shrugged. "It doesn't have to be the way it's been, Sherlock. It's not been good for either of us, has it? This last year."

No reply, just an infinitesimal shake of the head.

"It's not been right since you came back," Watson persisted. "My fault."

"No. I…made assumptions I had no right to. It was me. Me is not a nice person. But you know that."

"Yeah. Makes sod-all difference, though."

He risked a sideways look and a smile. Surprised to see other eyes looking into his, eyes open to be read for once, eyes shining, risking a smile of their own. John Watson was suddenly pleased he knew this man better than most. Could read the words within the silences sometimes.

"Oh, Christ."

John Watson leant sideways, put his arm awkwardly around narrow hunched shoulders and gusted out a breathy noise somewhere between a sigh of relief and a laugh.

"Welcome back, Sherlock. Bloody hell, I've missed you, mate."

 _There are limits….._

"Please don't touch me. I can't bear it."

"Yeah. Sorry. Forgot."

The doctor brushed tears from his eyes with his shirt cuff that he hadn't known were there and released the shoulders he held with reluctance.

"Tell me how I can help," he asked simply.

"By keeping away from me. Until Christmas. Christmas is when I will stop this thing. I promise. When you may yet come into your own."

"Finally. Now I know where I am. Thank you." He thought a moment. Bumped Sherlock Holmes' knee with his own,

"So do something for me, Sherlock. Don't go backwards. Now you've started - keep talking to me. We need this. Both of us."

"Emtional claptr…."

"No. Friendship. That's what friends do. So deal with that."

Sherlock Holmes looked at John Watson with that familiar quizzical frown he knew so well. As if words were welling, but could not escape.

"What do you want, Sherlock?"

The consulting detective drew his knees up to his chest then, put his forehead down onto his knees, his face hidden. The muddied bare toes clenched.

"I want everything to be as it was. Just me being me and you just being you. Working and laughing and taking on the world…like it can never be again."

The simple desolation in the words rang with their truth.

"Not as it was, no," Watson agreed sadly, but with resignation and resolve. "Because life moves on. But we'll do the nearest we can get to that, Sherlock. The nearest we can manage. Will that do?"

There was a long silence, a long exhalation of breath.

"The lasagne is cooked, John. Should we eat it before it burns?"

So they smiled a little at each other then, ate the lasagne and the garlic bread. Shared the tub of fresh fruit Drank tea. Talked about the weather and life, and even laughed a little. About something and nothing. Looking relaxed and normal.

John Watson listened absently while the consulting detective discoursed on the behaviour patterns of the artic tern, the influence of the moon on the tides, on Danish folk traditions and music. He was not interested in any of these subjects, but to hear that mellifluous baritone as it swooped and constructed lengthy and grammatically correct complex sentences again had a soothing quality he had not heard or felt for a very long time.

And slowly the hurt and the anger turned over and rolled away. Except that it didn't. Not really.

But time passed. And eventually there was the sound of the helicopter returning with Mycroft Holmes inside it. And in silent accord they both rose from the table and went outside to watch the landing.

"I must go," John Watson shrugged and allowed himself a wry smile "I told Mycroft I'd go straight back to the helicopter when he arrived. In case he wanted a word with you on his own."

"Such a treat," his friend replied drily.

"Get better and stop hurting, Sherlock. Come back to us safe and sound."

"If I come back. Then we shall see. But I shall not forget Magnussen. Whatever happens, whatever Mycroft might think."

"So much for talking therapy, then."

"Told you that before you started. Waste of time."

"Seeing you, making sure you are OK, is not a waste of time."

"Bleeding heart, John. Cheap sentiment. Don't leave with that burden. For either of us to carry."

He could not think what to say in reply. He had expected his friend to be lonely, damaged, needy. Wanting to talk. But now he realised he should have known better. He still wanted to reach out and hug him better. There had been progress, but full recovery still remained a distance away, and he recognised that.

Not knowing how to say goodbye, Watson took refuge in formality.

Reached forward for a handshake. Although they never shook hands. Had shaken hands only once - outside 221B Baker Street on that very first day. Lifetimes of wisdom and experience ago.

Sherlock Holmes looked down at the hand and disregarded it. Looked up into John Watson's eyes. Watson looked for a spark of warmth in those strange and all seeing opal grey eyes he had always thought he knew so well; but searched in vain for the warmth he so wanted..

Sherlock Holmes had given every scrap of human emotion he had in him, and there was no more to be spared. He refrained from saying that. With a formal little nod of farewell he turned back to the house.

John Watson watched the man he would always consider his best friend walk away without looking back, and had to stop himself from running after him. Explaining himself, apologising, unburdening himself. But realised even as the thought went through his mind that there was no place for that. It was not their way. Not Sherlock's way.

"Christmas, John,"

The two words drifted back to him across the clearing. That promise, at least. A chance to get things back to normal, the hope of that tiny chink in the armour. He would have to content himself with that. He shook his head, and sighed, and trudged back to the helicopter.

o0o0o0o

He had his hands in the sink washing the crockery from lunch when Mycroft stepped silently through the door. From the window he had watched his brother walk away from the helicopter towards the house, and Watson walk from the house towards the helicopter. And watched them pass each other without speaking.

Mycroft knew his brother was aware of his presence by the tense set of the shoulders. Decided not to bother with the pretence of waiting for a fond greeting that was never going to come. Or offer one himself.

"Domesticity in action. That surely merits a photograph for it's novelty value alone."

"You already have a photograph of me. Do you really need another?"

"Touchy, brother mine."

"As you would be. In my situation."

Mycroft came closer, lounged a shoulder against the kitchen wall, watching from scant feet away.

"Why did you bring him?" Sherlock asked.

"He wanted to see you. I thought it might help if you saw him."

"Help me? In what way?"

"Not you. Him. You know very well he needs you more than you need him. And his situation is…..delicate."

"Yes."

"You know this marriage situation cannot last? That Morstan is programmed to self destruct?"

"Of course. Time frame?"

"Unlikely before the baby is born, unfortunately. That will be a future complication Watson would be better without."

"Such is life, Mycroft."

"Indeed."

There was a silence of words as plates clattered onto the drainer. Mycroft Holmes did not pick up a tea towel to dry. His brother - who reflected he had never seen him perform such a mundane task - vaguely and uncharitably wondered if he even knew how.

"Have you had the conversation required?"

"Why make him think he needed to do that? When you know what happened to me, When you have the photographs?"

"I thought some structure of communication might benefit you both. You, especially."

"Ridiculous."

"Yes. But one hopes."

"Do not put me in that position again. It demeans me. Demeans Watson. Do that again and I shall hate you forever."

"Is that a threat or a promise?"

"Both."

"Sherlock, although it pains me to say it, in many ways Watson was right. You needed to talk about your situation to someone. If only to gain perspective. You have let the Magnussen situation overwhelm you. It's particular pressures."

"No I have not. And it's not your affair."

"Oh, but it is. Because if I find what I suspect is true - that you are still trying to bring Magnussen down, and in no small part to protect me - then I shall be very cross."

"You overrate yourself."

"When are you returning to London?"

"I told Watson Christmas."

"But when are you coming back? Unofficially, as you might say?"

"I don't know. I might not. I am getting a taste for quietness and normality. I might retire and become a hermit. My own Scottish island perhaps? I'm sure the trust fund could run to that."

"And what about the Work?"

"What about it? It might be someone else's turn to carry the baton now." There was a pause. That stretched. "Aren't you supposed to shout at me now? Flay me with words?"

"No. Not now." Mycroft Holmes moved slightly so that he was looking at his brother in full profile, so he could see every flicker of mood cross his face. "No. This is up to you. I am not going to interfere."

"Well, there's a first."

"I see it is time I spoke plainly." He sighed and braced his shoulders. Looking out of the window. At the same view as his brother, but with different eyes.

"When I found what you were doing - and achieving - in your two years away I was aghast. But impressed, Very you, if I may say so. Then I brought you back from Serbia and was appalled by what you had been through.

"I decided then that if you got through the bomb affair and came out of it whole and with a win, I would be content. Whoever you were after that, whatever you wanted to do, I would support you. So if you decide to become a hermit, or a back-to-the-soil recluse, a professional musician or even a lounge lizard - then I will encourage you to do that. This time it is up to you."

Sherlock Holmes turned his head very slowly and looked at his brother.

"Be careful, Mycroft. Human weakness might be showing."

"You and me both, then." He waited for a reaction or a reply, but did not get one. Moved very slightly, as if very irritated, from foot to foot.

"I must go. Watson will be waiting."

"Go then. Don't come back. Either of you."

The man at the sink did not shift from his position, eyes fixed on the view beyond the window, body rigid, face expressionless.

Mycroft waited. Finally realised that was all he was going to get. Left the kitchen soft footed and without another word, and did not pause to look back or listen for a farewell that would never come.

Sherlock Holmes stood where he was until he heard the helicopter take off. Until the engine note had disappeared across the sea, and the vibration from the thrum of the rotor blades left the air.

Not until then did he return to his armchair, wrap himself in a blanket, and go back to contemplating the view.

TO BE CONTINUED…..

 **Author's Notes:**

Sherlock's knowledge of the colour magenta, otherwise fuchsia pink, is correct. It was originally known as fuchsine, and is one of the four colours that comprise the basis of colour printing.

MI5 is the common shorthand term for one of 17 branches of the Directorate of Military Intelligence formed by the War Office prior to World War One. MI5 and MI6 (SIS: Secret Intelligence Service) are the only two that remain.

MI5 is responsible for internal national UK security: MI6 for UK security abroad.

The Thames side London headquarters are Vauxhall Cross for MI5 (nicknamed 'the ziggurat' due to it's appearance) and Thames House for MI6 opposite. Which explains Maggie Driscoll using the term: 'our friends across the river' in this context.

MI5 and MI6 are indeed leaders in equality employment in tables in all categories set by a variety of unlikely sources such as The Times Newspaper and Stonewall.

A Chief Whip is an authoritarian figure for any UK political party who ensures his Members of Parliament behave and vote in line with party rules and practises. The term comes from foxhunting; hunt servants known as whips - from the long thonged hunting whips they use for control - to 'whip in' the pack of hounds to keep them together as a unit when working in the field.

LPG: Liquid Petroleum Gas, otherwise known as propane or butane, comes in canisters and is a source of energy for cars, cooking or heating when there would otherwise be none available.

Wright's Coal Tar Soap: Created by William Valentine Wright in 1866, this is an orange antiseptic soap originally made from the liquid by product of the distillation of coal into coke. Wright came from Aldeburgh in Suffolk and first became famous for developing a non alcoholic communion wine.

It is now called Wright's Traditional Soap as EU regulations mean that coal products cannot be used as an ingredient, these now replaced with tea tree oil.


	31. Chapter 31

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 31: 'These are the things…'

 **Author Note: **

Apologies for this being posted 48 hours later than normal. Just goes to prove that the laptop, as well as me, can have a screw loose in the hard drive and needs to have the attentions of a feather duster from time to time! Thank you for your patience! Assuming there is not repeat of the problem update as normal with C32 next Thursday.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

No man is an island unto himself alone. Sherlock Holmes knew that, even though he contested the theory. But it was ironic that when a man was on an island on his own, the world still beat it's way to his stronghold.

The unexpected visit from his brother and his friend had been more traumatic in hindsight than in actuality. Both Watson's clumsy and forthright caring, and Mycroft's unfettered and unfiltered assessment, had rocked him to the core. And whaat he had had to do in repsponse to both.

Expressions of faith and trust he did not trust or know how to assimilate. And which, in the silence and the isolation of Agnaro, frightened and threatened to undermine his sense of purpose. And the anger still simmered.

Recovering was hard enough as it was without people getting in the way. He had always hated people getting in the way, getting close, having too clear a view of who and what he was. But this time there had been nothing he could do about it, or stop it.

So perhaps he was not surprised when the telephone rang that evening and Piet Bruhl was at the other end.

"Are you looking after my island?" he asked in greeting.

"Doing my best," Sherlock Holmes replied, and was instantly on the alert.

The timing was too pointed to be coincidental: that government helicopter would have delivered Mycroft and John Watson back to their destination by now. To their respective places of employment and their homes. And Mycroft would have had time to begin any machinations he felt fit to instigate.

So had Mycroft been planning behind his back? Talking to people? Asking Piet to keep an eye on him? To probe his reactions and level of recovery? Or was physical weakness and isolation making him paranoid now?

"Good. I wanted to make sure you were well."

"Has Mycroft been talking to you?"

"About you? No. Why should he?"

"I am just suspicious."

"Relax, Sherlock."

Piet Bruhl chuckled, and Sherlock found himself smiling a little at the telephone in return.

"Two weeks more, Piet. Then I will be out of your way."

"You are not in the way, my friend. But is that not a week earlier than you had planned?"

"I need to get back. Things to do. Even if I don't want to do them."

 _There! I've finally admitted it! Does that make it feel any better? No it does not._

"You are still focussed on Magnussen." It was a statement of fact, not a question.

"He still needs stopping," Sherlock replied blandly.

"I am not going to argue with you," Piet's response was equally bland; and diplomatic. "I am not your brother. But that was not why I am speaking to you." He paused, a change of tone in his voice, becoming lighter, a riff of amusement now.

"Someone has asked for your telephone number. I said I needed your permission before I give it."

"Who?" the single word was suspicious.

"Christina Ravn. You met her at our wedding? The beautiful police inspector. I am sure you remember her."

"Why should she want to talk to me?"

" I do not know, Sherlock. I was far too polite to ask. Perhaps she likes you?"

"Hmn"

Piet laughed down the telephone at the unamused huff he heard in reply.

"So can I give her your number? She'll keep at me if I don't…."

"Oh, very well, But I will disappoint her. Whatever it is she wants."

"You should be so lucky to have the chance, my friend."

A few pleasantries, and the call ended. Sherlock Holmes immediately forgot about Christina Ravn. He should have known better.

o0o0o0o

In the evenings he had work to do. Sitting at a brand new laptop, inputting information, creating files, producing material. A little more every day. Part of a plan.

He was intent and absorbed and if his phone ever rang in the evening he was annoyed and distracted.

Even when it was Dale Pike.

The journalist rang close to midnight, when all was dark and silent, and Sherlock Holmes was taking a break from his work on the laptop with a mug of tea.

"Sherlock?"

"It's late."

"Yeah, sorry. Thought you would want to know about Kitty."

Cold fingers of anticipation worked their way down his spine and he took a long steady breath so his voice when he spoke was completely calm, almost disinterested.

"Yes. Thank you."

"Magnussen has let her go. With immediate effect. Working out of her notice was not needed. Unbelievable, eh?"

"So what's the catch?"

"Don't think there is one, my friend. He just called her into his office, said she was no further use to him, and she could go. Just like that. So she thanked him very much, gathered her stuff together, and left. This afternoon. Hasn't she told you?"

"I instructed her not to contact me. I am still in recovery."

"Still?" There was such quick and honest concern in the voice at the other end of the line it made Sherlock Holmes frown. "You are getting better, though, aren't you? I hadn't realised you were so…."

"I'm fine. I will be fine. Unimportant. But tell me: did Andrew….."

"Use his potential blackmail lever? Knowledge of the photos? No he didn't have to."

"I see. Interesting."

"Yeah. Thought we might have to get nasty, but no. Must admit, I'm astonished."

"Quite so. What exactly did Magnussen say to Kitty?"

" He said something a bit odd, but I daresay you'll understand. He said he didn't need Kitty to reach you anymore. Said he only had to snap his fingers and you would come running. That he could point a finger. That make any sense to you?".

Sherlock Holmes felt his face grow cold. Yes, those simple words of cliché made absolute sense. It had come to this: the meeting in the penthouse when on his way to the airport had been filmed. The assault upon him that started it all would have been edited and wiped or reinvented; or perhaps even stored away for private and illicit enjoyment. But there would be carefully edited footage for public consumption of that despicable consulting detective victimising and damaging that nice billionaire Mr Magnussen. Blackmail coming closer to home. Yes.

He always forgot something. Always got something wrong. He had known, on that very first visit to CAM News, that his interview with Kitty in the company boardroom - the interview Magnussen gatecrashed - was being filmed and recorded. Why had he not also realised that their meetings in the office, in the private apartment, would have been recorded also?

 _Fool! Cretin! Idiot! Give out bullets to be shot with for free, why not? When you are so stupid you deserve nothing more._

But it was now clear that the moment of Sherlock Holmes' childish revenge, his final retaliation and desperate act of self defence - the breaking of a finger - had been recorded and doctored and kept. And would now be used against him. Whenever Magnussen chose to use that lever.

Whenever he wanted to dominate and to win. Whenever he wanted to subjugate and humiliate. Turn the tables - as always - back to his own advantage.

 _Predator. Tiger. Shark. Jackal. Parasite._

 _You are never rid of the blackmail until you are rid of the blackmailer. Quite so._

"Haven't a clue. Just being nasty, I presume."

"Yeah, that was what Kitty thought. Don't worry about it. He can't do anything to you, now can he?"

Sherlock Holmes did laugh then, and Dale Pike joined in. Until he thought of something else and asked:

"Those photos. I believe they exist, I really do, Sherlock. But now that's over, are you going to tell me who was Magnussen's victim in that little adventure?"

"No. Not without permission," he said. And put the phone down.

Sat looking blindly out into the night, and started making plans for an early return to London. Three telephone calls. Dealing with a huge weight now sitting on his chest. And keeping that return secret.

o0o0o0o

The telephone call he had forgotten might be coming happened while he was eating breakfast next morning. Tea and toast at 10am after a run and a swim in the increasingly cold winter sea.

The telephone trilled and he picked it up automatically. The identity screen said simply 'Private Number.' So at least he knew who it wasn't. So he answered it anyway. But without - as he normally did - simply rapping out his name.

"God morgen" he said. 'Good morning' in Danish, with a passable Copenhagen accent.

"Hallo," came the more informal Danish greeting Then, in English: "Am I speaking with Sherlock Holmes?"

"Hvem er det?" Maintaining both accent and the language - 'who is that?'

"Christina Ravn, Mr Holmes. As I think you may have been expecting? If you have spoken to Piet….?"

"Yes. Hello. What do you want?" English now. Cool and off putting.

The switch from mildly spoken Danish tenor to offhand English baritone threw her a little, and she paused, then asked::

" I would like to confer with you, if you can spare some time?"

"I am still convalescent."

"I know. I am sorry, but I thought this might interest you. Provide a distraction, even? And help me."

"What?"

He heard her sigh down the line; Irritated by his brusqueness. Unused to passive aggressive lack of cooperation.

" You may or may not know that Denmark has very little serious crime. Very few murders…."

"Yes." He wasn't about to help her. He didn't have the strength.

"I think I have a serial killer at large. Five victims so far I think. I wondered…if you could ….give a little advice, perhaps?"."

His head was suddenly full of white noise. Panic. Stress. He was sure he could feel sweat on his brow.

 _No. Not again. No. I don't want to do this. I'm not ready. I have too much in my head. I am in hiding. No, not…now. Not…._

"Nej. Undskyldl. Nej. Nej." No. Sorry. No. No.

 _When did someone else say that? Nej! Nej! Ah. Magnussen. Trying to stop Mary shooting him, So she could shoot me instead…._

He clicked off the telephone. Stood up, agitated Flung the phone down onto the chair and left it there. Was about to stride out of the room when it rang again. He glared at it, but did not answer.

When it stopped he glared at it again. As if glaring it into submission.

An incoming text pinged. He stopped breathing. Perhaps it was coincidence? Ulf Anker texting to ask what he wanted in this week's supplies?

He opened the text. Read it twice. Still did not believe what he saw.

 **10.07am: I am five minutes away. Boat should be in view about now? Ravn.**

He threw down the phone and ran out of the house, down to the shoreline.

And yes - a launch was working it's way towards him. And as it closed on the little jetty, he could make out the blue and white outline of the hull, the Jutland police district badge on the side. The helmsman, a mere blur in the cabin, and a tall slim figure in the open footwell wearing a police blue anorak with the hood up, dark trousers, hands in pockets. Looking his way.

He stumbled down the beach and was stranded on the water's edge when the launch hove to and moored. He took two steps backwards. But had nowhere to hide.

She came down the jetty towards him. A bag worn crossways over her chest. Ponytail bouncing. Long confident strides.

"Sherlock!"

She came towards him, all professional energy and confidence, and he wilted at the very look of her brightness. She put a hand out to shake his, and he ignored it.

"Go away. I'm ill."

"You don't look ill, Not any more. From how you were at the wedding, to how you look now, you appear perfect again. I'm pleased to say."

She looked at the wind tangled curls, the weathered brown face, the new slim but muscular body shape, and could only smile at it. He looked - in worn denims, old sweatshirt and nothing else, despite the December chill - fit and full of fresh air and turbo power yet to engage gear.

"You may think so. But you never saw me before." He scowled then and his head lifted into withdrawal. "You have had a wasted trip."

"Please Sherlock…let me explain. Just let me talk. Look at the photos. Only a few minutes of your time."

 _Please go away. Pleasepleaseplease…_

She stepped close to him, put a hand on his long unresponsive arm, put her lips to his cold thin face and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. He did not pull away, but turned artic unwelcoming eyes to hers.

"Please, Sherlock?" she said. "I don't know who else to ask. You are the world's only consulting detective, so let me consult. Piet thinks you are remarkable."

"Flattery," he spat. "Ridiculous."

"What else can I do?" She grinned at him conspiratorially and shrugged. Watched him turn on his heel and go back to the house. Took that as tacit permission to follow.

In the sitting room he was standing with his back to the fireplace, arms crossed over his chest, head flung back as if defying her. But she ignored that. Sat on the sofa, opened her bag and pulled out report papers and photographs.

And when she had all the paperwork sorted to her satisfaction she sat still and looked up at him, as if asking for permission to continue.

He sighed, rolled his eyes and made a gesture with one hand as if saying 'go on.' And so she began.

"Two weeks ago there were two deaths in an older citizens gated community on the outskirts of Aalborg. Agnete Schmidt was seventy seven, a retired office clerk. Died on the Monday. On Thursday Bent Friis, a former postman, was found dead in his home by the local plumber. He was eighty three."

"Old people. Sad, but it happens."

"Indeed. This is why I come to you." She risked a glance up at him. He appeared not to have moved, his features set in stone. She passed him photographs he barely glanced at. "Neither had a history of illness, both in apparent good health. Both found sitting in chairs in their homes. No sign of seizure or collapse. No evidence after medical examination of any natural - or unnatural - cause of death. But both dead."

"They just sat down and died then? It happens."

"That is what was thought. The natural reaction. But my instincts began to speak to me. You know?

"Then the manager of the complex mentioned another resident had died in the same way. She may have been the first, before a patterns started to appear. Then another identical death just three days ago: Lasse Olsen. Aged sixty one. Found sitting at his kitchen table with a half eaten lunch. before him."

"That is no age for such a sudden death…"

"Exactly. He had only been resident for a matter of weeks. The complex is for single people aged over sixty. A former school caretaker. Friendly, talkative, a bit nosey, neighbours said, but likeable even so. His death especially made no sense."

"I understand how you felt a pattern was beginning to show…"

"And we have another one this morning," she continued. "Helle Bak. Retired secretary, aged seventy eight. No health issues bar minor diabetes. No relations."

"Is she still in situ?"

"Yes. I have not yet seen the body myself. I have been twitchy about these deaths all along. No-one but me suspects a pattern. I had resolved if there was another one I would appeal to you for help. As soon as I heard the news this morning I raced for a boat to reach you, to ring you. For now I did have that other one. See…"

She held out her telephone to show him a photograph of an elderly lady with soft white curls and pink framed spectacles sitting quietly, leaning to one side in a winged armchair. Her hands grasped the arms of the chair, and she looked as if she was just dozing. As if she had dropped to sleep in the evening watching TV. But had never woken up in the morning.

"It all looks so innocuous, so ordinary. But it can't be, can it?"

"I understand your instincts are screaming."

He looked at her thoughtfully.

 _Needs my logic, my instinct. So she thinks. But she could do this herself, surely? Perhaps a five? Take a look? See if I still can still do this? A look at least gets this persistent policewoman off by back. And can't do any harm._

"Give me fifteen minutes to wash and dress?"

He was flinging the words behind him as he left the room. A degree of tension she had not realised she was carrying released and she took a long breath. She had not been sure she was right, that he would respond…..

"Make yourself and your boatman a hot drink. Won't be long," he called as he stepped into the bathroom, and she did so.

This was the first time she had visited Piet Bruhl and Fredrik Sondersun's island retreat, and she was charmed by the quiet simplicity of the place. Sherlock Holmes had, Piet had told her, been resident for seven weeks now, recuperating in the silence and the isolation.

The hermit-like existence would have driven her mad, but he clearly relished it. He looked a different man today compared to the weak, tense thing at Piet and Fredrik's wedding, Strong again, more relaxed, without the skeletal fragility and pallor, the haunted eyes of before.

Despite the shabby casual clothes he had been wearing that morning, he was keeping the house scrupulously clean and neat, the only evidence of occupation the two laptops tucked under the sofa, the open book on the side table - Ford Maddox Ford's _Parade's End,_ she noted, a thick tome she had never heard of - and the incongruous presence of a violin case propped against an armchair. Intriguing.

She could hear running water in the bathroom and went to the kitchen to find the kettle and clean mugs. One dirty plate (toast crumbs) and mug (tea dregs) in the sink, the detritus of a recently eaten breakfast - the toaster and kettle still warm. A Spartan, disciplined man, then, who fed his mind in preference to his body. So what else would she have expected? She smiled to herself and found the coffee.

Meanwhile, after a quick shower, Sherlock Holmes looked critically at himself in the bathroom mirror. Back to the world, sooner than expected. Torn from his retreat without notice.

 _Hello again, world. Half a day to you, and then fuck off back to where you came from and leave me alone. Just for a little bit longer….._

He sighed, picked up his open razor, and paid attention to the five day growth of beard that irritatingly always grew so much lighter and more auburn than the rest of his hair…..

Dressing as Sherlock Holmes again after so long felt like something foreign now, like buckling on armour. Piece by painful piece. The black fitted Dolce Gabbana shirt; the silk socks, hand made Lobb Oxfords, the classic charcoal Spencer Hart suit. His little tool roll slipped into a pocket, and the Belstaff came off the hook for the first time since he had arrived. Along with the blue scarf casually knotted at his throat.

He appeared in the doorway to the sitting room and said: "Shall we?" to the police inspector who had been looking out to sea from the window. She turned to him with a little gasp of appreciation at the transformation from beach bum to elegant professional.

"Something wrong?" he asked, not appreciating the impression he made. And she smiled, and shook her head.

"Nothing wrong. Let us go and solve this thing, then." She stood and gathered her bag to her. Yet could not resist adding: " You look good, you know. A million dollars, as they say."

 _Oh! She means me! Ridiculous! Ridiculously charming…._

He threw a sideways glance towards her.

"Tak," he said. Then added with a cheeky, little boy grin that transformed his angular features and harsh expression: "Tusiad tak." Thanks. A thousand thanks.

He put a small duffle bag on his shoulder and followed her out to the boat.

Once inside the cabin he claimed the paperwork and read carefully. Turned all the photographs to the light for close examination. Concentrated in silence despite the bucking of the boat against the waves. Christina Ravn stood by his side, braced against the movement and watched the bent head with it's dark tumble of curls, the thin sensitive hands as they handled the papers and photographs.

"There are no links to any of the victims apart from where they live?"

"Victims? You think I am right?"

"Of course. Instinct against villainy is never misplaced. And it is not usual for all the deceased - unless they are victims of crime - to all be found in the same position; sitting in a chair, hands on the chair arms." He slanted a look, a half smile, up at her. "Generally speaking if people die suddenly, it is in their bed or walking down the street. Not by being bored to death by bad television. Coincidence? The universe is rarely so lazy."

She gave a small laugh and dropped a hand down onto his shoulder, not realising until that moment how important it had been for someone to believe in her theory.

"You thought I would doubt you?" he asked, glaring at the hand until she moved it hastily with a muttered apology. "Have faith in your professional instincts."

He read on.

"The bodies of the deceased are still available to examine?"

" Two of them, yes. At the hospital."

"Good. " He thought for a moment. "Tell me about the original death, the one some weeks ago."

"We have no forensic history on that one. Eight weeks ago, and she has been cremated. Sorry." She shrugged. "In all appearances a natural death. Hoa Torsten. Aged sixty eight. Retired translator and teacher. Vietnamese, married to a Danish teacher she met when he was on voluntary service overseas. Jan Torsten; he died fifteen years ago."

"Her full name, please?" he explained his question. "She may have used his surname in Denmark, but in Vietnamese tradition she would have retained her own names; do you remember them?"

"Yes. Formally listed as Nguyen Hang Hoa. But she had the nickname Bian."

"Did she indeed?" he looked at her with sharp concentration.

"What does that mean?"

"Perhaps nothing." He increased her knowledge. "In the Vietnamese tradition names read backwards. Nguyen is the surname; the equivalent of Smith, I suppose. Hang is her middle name - it means moon. Her first name, listed last, Hoa, stands for flower-like. Her parents hoped she would be pale and pretty." He smiled. "Not so unusual, is it? Names are important in Vietnam, said to describe the soul of their owner.

"But it is the name she gives herself, her nickname, that is most revealing of what she thinks of her soul. And perhaps her cleverness. Bian. A woman with secrets. I wonder what they were?" He smiled, looked thoughtful. "Can you find more about her for me? Might be important."

She nodded. Took out her phone and called in a query to police headquarters for a background check Was this a lead? Already? Purely from Sherlock Holmes' encyclopaedic knowledge? Her shoulders relaxed. She had sudden hope. Looked at him afresh. So was he all Piet Bruhl said he was?

"The retired caretaker, Olsen. He is the one that breaks the pattern - dying sitting eating a meal. No chair arms to hold." He waved the police photograph at her.

"Did you think this did not look right? Sitting at the table in front of his meal with his hands clutching his cutlery. Odd. If he had died of SDS or a seizure he would have relaxed or convulsed; either way he would have dropped the tools. This appearance is not right. Do you have more photographs at police headquarters? I need to see them."

"Yes."

"Hmn."

He sat back and looked away. Silence and concentration. Silent as he left the launch, silent in the back of the white Ford Focus with the blue lights. She shot regular glances at him throughout the journey and decided he wasn't sea sick, or sulking, or tired. That was just the way he was; taciturn, impassive, self contained.

Gyldne Dal Landsby - Golden Valley Village - was a complex of fifty seven white painted small cottages surrounding a little lake and dotted with trees. An ideal home.

At number twenty three two police cars, an ambulance and a taped cordon showed where Helle Bak had met her end. Christina Ravn was first out of the car and was in immediate conversation with what looked like a police sergeant and a pathologist.

Sherlock Holmes followed more slowly and leant against the side of the car for so long the police driver looked at him sideways and asked if he needed any help.

"Nej, tak," he replied and with palpable reluctance followed the three others into the small and plainly furnished sitting room.

Helle Bek was still sitting in her winged armchair wearing a black skirt and cardigan, white blouse. Pink framed spectacles still on her nose, hands clasping the ends of the chair arms. Apart from the waxy pallor of her face, she looked as if she would smile and rise and offer them tea. Any moment now.

The police representatives and the Scene of Crime officers approached her, but Sherlock Holmes held back. Put his hand to the door jamb and froze on the spot. Christina Ravn noticed. Turned and came back to him. Leant into his personal space.

 _Can't do this. Can't. Too much. Feel dizzy._

"What is it?" she whispered.

He turned dead eyes and a dead voice to her.

"I can't do this."

"What do you mean?"

 _Didn't you hear me? Didn't I speak plainly enough?_

"I can't do this. Not any more."

 _Ican'tIcan'tIcan't…_

"Sherlock! Of course you can! Pull yourself together!"

He shook his head and took a step backwards.

 _No. Don't. Make. Me,_

"You are just out of practise, that's all."

 _How true. How very, very true._

"No. Not just that."

"Pull yourself together! You just need to - what is the phrase? - 'get back onto your high horse'. Yes?" She wondered why he grinned suddenly at that, but continued:

 _Pull yourself together Sherlock. Don't be an idiot Sherlock. Be a brave little boy. Just like your big brother. How many times have I…._

"No-one here has unreasonable expectations of you, Sherlock. Don't be frightened of yourself. And you are already halfway there….."

 _Halfway to what? Halfway which way? Forward or back? Decide now. If there is really ever any choice in the matter?_

After a moment he looked down at her and nodded. Pulled a pair of blue nitrile gloves from the bag on his shoulder, put them on his hands and stepped forward. Helle Bek ignored him and Ebbe Holm the pathologist was immediately at his side.

"Time of death?" Easy first question. His voice sounded as rusty with disuse as his brain felt, and he coughed, cleared his throat to disguise it.

"Around 7am. She was still warm when I arrived. No signs of either violence or illness. She just looks….dead." The pathologist was around Sherlock's age, but short, ginger haired, wiry. "May know more when I get her on the table."

Sherlock Holmes nodded, stepped closer. Christina Ravn watched his hands sketch circles in the air. Learning the scene, peering, frowning. Sniffing.

"I smell something. What do I smell?"

"Dunno," said the pathologist automatically. " Old lady's talcum powder?"

"No. Not that. Fish? On her cardigan, I think. Could someone find out the last time she had fish for a meal?" He looked at Christina, and she nodded, far from hopeful, but delegated the sergeant to enquire of neighbours.

"Something else, too. Something medical…." he put his fingers gently to the old woman's face. Sniffed her hair. Ran his hands lightly down her arms. Onto the cuff of the white blouse at her wrists. Bent his head to her hands. Sniffed deeply. Several times.

Christina Ravn could not decide if she was fascinated by his gentleness around the body or repelled by the forensic minute attention to detail. Either way, she could not take her eyes from the consulting detective as he worked.

"There is a smear of something on her cuff here; can you take a sample and get it tested. Smells like…hand cream? Medicinal hand cream? Not hers, I think. No aroma off it around the house. Here only. Analysis, please."

Holm scraped a sample into a small jar, labelled it. Then put the jar into his bag.

Sherlock Holmes stood in front of the old lady for a moment then hunkered down in front of her, peering into her face as if she was speaking to him. And who could tell if she wasn't, Christina Ravn thought. For there was something almost supernatural about his pose and intense level of concentration.

Finally he carefully lifted the dead woman's hands from the chair arms and took them in his own. They were tiny and frail in his, and he kneaded them gently with his thumbs.

"Look," he said, nodding, directing policewoman and pathologist to view the hands within his. "Can you see? Tiny bruises on the tops of the hands. Pre or post mortem? Pre, I think. I find bruises fascinating. Prime indicators." He confided, then smiled. A disconcerting, almost childish smile of what might have been delight.

"So. Murder, indeed. Who found the body?"

"Aksel Sov. Deputy site manager and odd job man. He had a appointment to call and fix a leaking tap. Nothing exciting."

"Oh, I don't know. I would like to speak to him, if I may?"

Aksel Sov proved to be a bright eyed young man in his late twenties. Quizzical, energetic, eager to please. He reminded Ravn of a young blackbird.

"Yes, Fru Bek wished me to come early to mend her bath tap. She said the dripping irritated her. Old ladies, eh? They have their whims." He nodded conspiratorially, sharing a confidence.

"Indeed," demurred Sherlock Holmes. "You knew her well?"

"Not especially. There are many old ladies and gentlemen here; if I spent time with all of them I would get no work done." He smiled happily, and looked over to the empty armchair where Helle Bek had been sitting when she died. And from which she had just been removed by the ambulance men. Sherlock Holmes observed without comment.

"Always a sadness. However, working in a complex such as this, one gets used to the progression of life."

"You are a philosopher then, Hr Sov?"

"I am interested in the philosophies of the world, yes. I read widely."

"But university life did not suit you? Too….fun loving for you?"

"How did….? Yes, indeed, Hr Holmes. I prefer the quiet contemplative life."

He clasped his hands around his knees and smiled benignly. Sherlock Holmes sat and looked at them absentmindedly.

"So is your silver pendant a religious or a philosophical token?"

"What? Oh, no….." he fingered the circular object on a leather thong around his neck. "My mother's," he explained. "Sentimental attachment. Lilacs. On the token, Her favourite flowers."

"Really?"

Sherlock Holmes did not pursue the matter, smiled and continued:

"You knew the other poor souls who have died recently?"

"Not all. Hr Olsen had not been with us long. A former school caretaker; always wanting to pass on tips." The young man frowned. "Too much so, I think. Yes. Hr Friis kept himself to himself, but he was very old and did not get out much. Fru Schmidt was a nice lady; made me tea. Other than that I cannot help you."

He beamed happily at Christina Ravn, who smiled back. Wondering why Sherlock Holmes was asking so many questions of this innocent boy.

"You have not mentioned your friend, Bain - Mrs Torsten."

"Oh, so someone has told you we were friends? Died rather suddenly, poor lady. Yes, I befriended her when she came here four years ago. Being from foreign parts and widowed I thought she would have few friends. So we chatted. She was very reserved. Until she knew you."

He nodded, remembering.

"Kind of you. She made you meals, gave you gifts?"

"Just little biscuits sometimes, or green tea. I like green tea."

"Thank you for your help, Hr Sov. Yes, most helpful."

"Was he helpful?" Christina Ravn asked after the odd job man left the house.

"Of course? Did you not see?"

"See what?"

"Ah! You saw, but you did not observe. Time now to observe the other two victims available, I think."

Silence in the back of the police car taking them to the mortuary.

"Is this murder, Sherlock?"

"But of course. Your instinct was right, Christina. Be patient. Intriguing, but no more than a four. On my scale of interest up to ten, that is."

"Oh, great. Not much at all, then. Sorry to have bothered you."

He turned to her then, face intent, eyes glowing, the uncertainty of earlier gone.

"I didn't say it isn't interesting. I merely inferred it is not difficult."

"So are you going to explain?"

"Let us view the other bodies first…"

Ebbe Holm was there before them and had the bodies of the two men, Bent Friis and Lasse Olsen, out ready to be viewed, lying covered on adjoining tables.

He and Christina Ravn stood back as Sherlock Holmes removed his coat, took possession of an apron and fresh nitrile gloves and without comment lifted a small tool roll from his pocket, extracting a magnifier and clicking it open.

They watched him concentrate on the faces and necks, the hands and wrists.

Then he beckoned them both over to Lasse Olsen.

"Mr Olssen has the same bruises on his hands. Did you not consider them worth investigation when you first examined him?"

The pathologist shrugged.

"He had several other bruises on his body - an elbow, a knee, one arm; I was told he had been doing work on his new home and had knocked himself over the course of the last few days when doing so."

"And how do you bruise the back of your hands and wrists like that? There is only one way this can be done." he whirled round and fixed a commanding eye on the police inspector.

"Fru Inspektor; your assistance please. If you would just sit in Ebbe's desk chair for me….?"

Puzzled, she crossed the room and sat down as he bid her to. Put her hands on the chair arms.

He took off his gloves and binned them, walked purposefully towards her and stopped only when his long legs were straddling her thighs.

"Uncomfortable, yet?" he grinned down at her, and she tried not to squirm at being in such close proximity to an attractive man's groin.

"It is OK, Christina. I am not going to kiss you. I am going to kill you. Now concentrate."

He laughed, mimed taking something out of his jacket pocket, unfolding it, gesturing over and above her head.

"Imagine you are a feeble elderly person. A visitor to your home, someone you trust, enters. Chats, shares tea perhaps, then comes up to you - just like this - whips a plastic bag or similar over your head so you cannot breathe. What do you do?"

"Struggle. Cry out. Put my arms up and fight…" she mimed doing these things.

But she was too close to him to be effective, and he was crowding her, dominant by being so close and standing so tall. She could neither stand nor strike effectively.

And then, very quietly and calmly, Sherlock Homes took her wrists. Put her arms down onto the chair arms, turned his hands so they were on top of hers, and leaned in. Christina Ravn's hands were trapped and immobile. And so was she.

"You see how easy it is? Someone old, vulnerable, trusting. To lean on the backs of the hands like this is an accepted form of restraint in a variety of care situations, and the only possible way to cause such bruises; even faint ones like Fru Bak's. Hr Olsen was younger, stronger, but taken by surprise as he ate his meal. Probably swiftly and from behind. Hands forced down onto the table. He was harder to kill. The bruises show it.

"You can hold someone down in this way but to be effective and leave no trace you really need to lean down with your elbows, not the heels of your hands." He demonstrated. " Push down gently but firmly, joints pointing outwards. Very rarely any bruising then. When you know how to do it." He leant into Christina Ravn, concentrating hard and did not see her. Suddenly stood upright again.

"I need to go back to Golden Valley Village. Talk to people." He swirled back into his coat.

"I need to know what that cream is, Ebbe. And if any similar marks showed on post mortem photographs of Fru Schmidt and Bian Torsten - Nguyen Hang Hoa.

" I also need to know if Bian had Vietnamese jewellery, and if there was anyone else in the village interested in Asian art and culture. And if anything was missing from her home when she died…..if any of the victims had money or items missing."

Christina Ravn followed him as he raced back to the police car, sat next to him as his fingers drummed impatiently on his knees as they sped back to Gyldne Dal Landsby.

"You know what happened," she stated. It was almost an accusation.

"Yes. I do."

"How do you know? I have seen what you have seen….."

"But not through my eyes. Not with my knowledge." The half smile he gave her was not triumphal, but the wise and bitter smile of an old man. "That is my curse," he said quietly. And for once she knew better than to ask him to explain.

And so she followed him through the day. Saw how he spoke to people in the village. Listened, watched, translated for him sometimes. Watched him charm, and question, watched him listen and ask - sometimes ask questions that made no sense to her at all. But by now she had learnt to not ask, nor to judge his methods, to just help and to shadow.

By the end of the working day she was hungry, thirsty and exhausted. At 6pm she had to put her hand on his arm and say firmly: "Enough. Tomorrow is another day."

"There may be another murder tomorrow."

She stopped, aghast.

"Who? How? When?"

"Who? Someone in the village, obviously. I do not know who, precisely. There is no way I could predict…. How? The same method as the other five. Because yes, Mrs Torsten was the first. I have someone checking into her background, back in Vietnam. Even a little information will explain things. Clarify how this started.

"You ask me when. I…Oh! Of course! Stupid of me! I need to talk to the manager!"

And he was gone, hands thrust deep in coat pockets, striding swiftly away. She had difficulty keeping up, and eventually did not try, slowed to a walk. So that by the time she reached the central office he was outside again.

"Sherlock! Slow down! Enough for today. Let me take you home and make a meal…"

"I need to be back here early tomorrow morning, Both of us. I have no other support here. Private car though, use the back entrance. Not be seen. Don't want to alarm….."

"Stop!"

And he did. Stopped in mid stride and turned to her.

"Sorry? What?"

"You are a whirlwind. I can't keep up with you. We have finished for the day. Come on - home."

"I can find a hotel."

"You are only here because of me. A bed for the night is the least I can do."

He gave her a strange look she could not read.

"Not your bed," he said; half statement, half question, but with a quiet, inoffensive firmness.

"That wasn't an invitation to share. I was offering my spare room, for what that's worth."

"No, no. A chair is fine. A sofa even better. I rarely sleep when on a case."

"Of course not," she agreed as if humouring a recalcitrant child. "A meal and a sofa I can do."

"I rarely eat when I am working., Food slows me down. But tea would be good?"

He grinned at her then, and she linked her arm through his, and laughed into his face without guile or resentment at his strangeness.

"You are as unique as Piet Bruhl says you are. And you have given me a fascinating day." she said.

"Thank you," he replied with something like humility. "I try my best."

"But what was this morning about? That loss of confidence?"

He walked on towards the car, and she thought he had not heard her. But once they were settled and the driver knew to take them home - wherever that might be - he said softly:

"I was shot, on a case. Died on the operating table, then came back from the dead. Nearly died again, later. I was weeks, months, in hospital. I have been so very ill. And so weak….." he paused. "You told me that no-one here had any expectations of me. Knowing that I have a clean slate here with you was…..heartening. Comforting, even.

 _Tell her the truth. She has earnt it. And no-one else will ever know._

"When I am home everyone - Scotland Yard, my brother, everyone - expects me to be a superman, their knight on a white horse. To work miracles. Do you understand? Because unfortunately for me, that is I what I do. Used to do.

"But I am out of practise, Christina. Have lost my head for heights, Been off that high horse of yours for too long. Don't know if I can do it any more."

She reached for his hand and grasped it. It was cold, and he pulled it away.

"Please don't," he said collectedly.

"I don't know how today has been on your usual scale of operations, or if you remember what that is any more. But I have been impressed. And I have learnt. From your knowledge, Your way of looking and observing. Your work ethic. You ability to change like a chameleon. To be whoever you need to be to get the right response from the person you are talking to.

"Even without reaching an end result today, I have learnt. Does it help you? To know that?"

He turned his head and looked at her levelly with a quiet assessment in his eyes. It should have been disconcerting, but it wasn't.

"You are good at what you do. Without your instinct a murderer would be getting away with his crimes, and his crimes would continue. You have little to learn from me."

"You have this sorted, don't you?"

"Almost."

"So tell me."

"Tomorrow. When I have background, everything falls into place. And there is proof."

And she knew from the tone of his voice she would have to be content with that.

She sat with him in the car and watched the landscape move into townscape and cityscape. Watched him immobile by her side and memorised his profile; not classically handsome, but distinctive. And with the deepest and most luminous eyes she had ever seen, eyes that saw all yet revealed so little.

"I have a modern flat in the university quarter, the redeveloped part of the city where the dockyards and shipwrights used to be. It is now a new heart to the city with a big cultural centre, The Utzen, a park and new shops and restaurants. A good place to be."

He nodded, barely listening, his mind elsewhere. On the case, she assumed.

The peaceful silence between them lasted until they were out of the car and had waved the driver away.

"We can walk around the corner to a restaurant? Have a meal? Or a takeaway, perhaps?"

"Do whatever you wish. I don't eat when I am working."

"Yes, you said. I thought you were just being polite."

"I'm never polite," he said, and the words came so calmly she understood he was not joking or being self deprecating. Just stating how things were.

"How does that work?" she asked mildly.

"I do my own thing. People get cross. Then leave me alone. That is best for me."

She laughed. Took his arm. "The pizzeria is closest. Pizza, salad, fresh fruit. That will do," she said. And he accompanied her as she entered the shop, ordered the food, and waited patiently with her, death and murder behind them for a while.

Their conversation was desultory, like that of old friends, and Sherlock Holmes realised he was relaxed, comfortable within himself for once, and without stress. He had mentally only allocated half a day to this puzzle, and yet had given more. But it deserved it.

He had the case almost solved, had stepped back into the real world, and the universe - his universe - had not shifted on it's axis.

London, Mycroft, the Watsons and blackmail seemed so far away. He should have know better, he thought later. Not relaxed.

They walked to the apartment block, waited for the lift and travelled upwards to Christina Ravn's top floor apartment. Two bedrooms and a wonderful view of the waterway, the Limfjord, which went through the town, and on which the history and the industry of Aalborg was based.

He went to the sitting room window to admire the evening lights of the city while the police inspector prepared her makeshift meal. Looked out towards the Utzon Centre, the university buildings, the church towers and the rebuilding that has replaced the shabby dockland with a new veneer of modernity and style.

She came into the room with a plate on a lap tray, apologising for the informality.

"No problem," he said. "Immaterial to me."

"Sure you don't want anything?" she asked. "Wine? Beer? Tea?"

"Just water for now," he said, and she directed him to the refrigerator for fruit based sparkling water. He poured himself a glass and was soothed by the informality, the lack of pressure she had put him under across the day.

Talking, supporting, asking questions. But not pressing, not interrogating. And he was relieved at that. Perhaps he should tell her about himself? She would be relaxed about that, he knew; not teasing, or criticising or picking holes in the way Sally Donovan or Phillip Anderson would.

But then: she did not know he was a freak, a high functioning sociopath. As she had told him earlier that day - no-one here was loading him with assumptions or expectations. Simply judging him by what they saw. He found that oddly refreshing and liberating.

She waved a hand to invite him to sit, and he took a corner of the sofa, as far away from her as possible while in the same living area, to give her - and himself - physical and mental space.

Sat back, drank half the glass of water in one breath. A thirst he had not noticed until he had quenched it. A newspaper rustled underneath him, and he absently tugged it free, lifted it out and smoothed the pages.

Glancing down, he could tell it was a page of court reporting. He smiled to himself: of course it was! What else would a policewoman read in her spare time? He idly turned the newspaper over, and saw he was now on the cultural pages. A photograph of some sort of presentation…..

His look sharpened. A lean man with thin sandy hair, wire rimmed spectacles, a beard and a restrained smile was presenting a silver trophy to a teenage boy. For a moment his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and he was dizzy.

He had forgotten for such a short space of time. This was too harsh, too coincidental too cruel! He brought the page closer to his face and looked again. Almost laughed. Those typical pale and ascetic features, so Danish! Of course it wasn't Magnussen! Of course it wasn't! And yet….

He looked again. Read what he could of the photo caption. Just the names

Magnus Lassen. Oh, just a similarity! No. There it was, Magnus Lassen, the boy musician with the trophy. Magnussen presenting the award. Magnussen. Yes, Pedder Magnussen.

In a voice that did not sound quite like his own - but Christina did not seem to notice, or remark upon it, so perhaps he was OK really? - he looked across at her and casually asked:

"Pedder Magnussen. His photo is in the paper here," he gestured to it, and she put down her slice of pizza and looked across. "Do you know him? And does he happen to have a brother?" The words were throttling him, but he had to speak them "Called Charles?"

"Pedder Magnussen lives round the corner," Christina Ravn replied, picking up her pizza slice again. Unperturbed. . "Runs a computer research company connected to the University. A great supporter of the orchestra here. Yes, he has a brother. Johan, a lecturer at the university. Oh, and I think another brother in publishing in England, Don't know his name. Is it important?"

Looked mildly curious. Was more interested in her meal. Unaware of the shock waves going through her guest like electricity, like convulsions. And images and memories of things he could never tell her about. While his world did rock on it's axis.

TO BE CONTINUED…

.

 **Author's Notes:**

 _Parade's End_ by Ford Maddox Ford is a quartet of novels - _Some Do Not_ , _No_ _More Parades_ , _A Man Could Stand Up_ and _Last Post_ -written between 1924 and 1928 that, among other things, details a love triangle within the shadow of World War One. It is considered one of the best fictionalised autobiographies dealing with this time period and the conflict. It has been dramatised twice by the BBC, in 1964 with Ronald Hines and Judi Dench, and in 2012 with Rebecca Hall and Benedict Cumberbatch. Both available on DVD. Currently in print in various editions, as is the Sir Tom Stoppard screenplay ( Faber and Faber UK, Grove Books USA) There is also a CD available of the incidental music composed by Belgian maestro Dirk Brosse,

Denmark has one of the lowest murder rates in the world. In 2011, for example just 47 murders were recorded across the nation.

Dolce and Gabbana: A luxury Italian fashion house formed in 1985 and world wide.

Spencer Hart: A premium menswear company whose retail arm went into liquidation in autumn 2014. Nick Hart's designs are still worn and much sought after.

Lobb: Hand made shoes and accessories from an old established firm in Jermyn Street with royal warranties. They still make and sell spats, leggings and spur straps. Oxfords are a men's formal lace up shoe styling.

Belstaff: When The _Sherlock_ costume department and Benedict Cumberbatch wanted a classic topcoat with good lines to create the _Sherlock_ silhouettethey chose the Belstaff Milford coat, which is no longer in production (it was brought back briefly due to customer demand as a result of the TV show) The unique red top buttonhole detailing by the BBC Costume Department was at the suggestion of Cumberbatch to reflect a menswear styling used by what he described as his 'friends in the Magic Circle' in an interview for US TV's _Masterpiece_ to give a colour pop to the Sherlock look.

Belstaff was founded in 1909 ands has always been associated with motor sport and the Isle of Man TT races especially. The firm produces clothes and accessories for men, woman and children. Famous other customers have included TE Lawrence (of Arabia) Amy Johnson, Amelia Earhart, Steve McQueen, Che Guavara and Sir Malcolm Campbell. Strangely, although the Belstaff website details various famous Belstaff wearers, _Sherlock_ does not even get a mention. Tsk!

The customised tool roll as used by Sherlock Holmes appears in BBC _Sherlock_ as a regular accessory for the character _._ For the history of it's existence see the O'Donnell short story _At Angelo's._

SDS is Sudden Death Syndrome. Anyone can be subject, and it normally happens due to an abnormal change to the heart's rhythm. It can happen in sleep, when awake, or after exercise. Sudden Arrhythmia Death Syndrome, or SADS, as it is more correctly known, kills up to 12 adults a week in the UK, with the child version known as SIDS - Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. It usually happens without warning or symptoms, though later often found due to an inherited and previously unknown family propensity.

The Utzen Centre is a new and special landmark on the Aalborg waterfront. The last creation of eminent Danish architect Jorn Utzen (1918 - 2008 ) who is most famous for designing the Sydney Opera House. Copenhagen born but brought up in Aalborg.

.

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	32. Chapter 32

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 32: 'Sure as hell….'

There was a cool hand on his forehead. A brisk voice telling him to wake up, wake up.

He jolted awake, certain he was still in hospital. Hands gripped his shoulders and made him lie back, and for a moment he fought them.

"You're not in hospital. You haven't been shot. You're OK."

A woman's voice. Brisk, Informing, not soothing. Not one of those abominable nurses, all softness and sentiment. This was rigor, this was precision, this was information.

Then as the haze of panic stilled, he realised he was fine, he was safe, he was in Christina Ravn's flat in Aalborg. Magnussen wasn't going to get him and no-one was about to attack his chest wound with an ice pick, Dean Dixon Carr was not waking him to shoot him, that it was all just bad dreams again ….

"You were having a nightmare. Shouting." She was leaning over him - practical blue pyjamas, dressing gown, bed hair - as he lay stretched out on the long black leather sofa, kicking out against the rug tangled in his legs. "Be calm now. All is fine."

Between gulps of air he was apologising, saying 'sorry….sorry….sorry' over and over as he struggled to sit up and she put a hand behind him and helped him rise without comment.

He found himself clutching the scar on his chest, heaving for breath and doing an imitation of an old lady having an attack of the vapours.

"No, no, no. Nothing to apologise for. I was shot once, at a demonstration. A scratch compared to yours, but it gave me bad dreams for months. You are good."

Christina Ravn reached down and handed him a cup of tea.

"When did you fall asleep? Or have you been researching all night?"

Almost," he agreed.

"So tell me. Before we return to see if there is another dead old person today."

She could see he had taken a couple of sheets of paper from the back of her printer, rather endearingly folded them into four as if making a child's book, and covered the paper in notes. Tiny, spidery, cursive writing, just as she might have expected.

"Yes. Notes you will need to take the case forward. "

"Not for you?"

" Don't need notes. Remember things."

"So tell me. We have an hour before we need to leave."

She curled down into the chair opposite him, relaxed now but attentive, hands around her own tea.

Last night he had refused to share her food. Had lost himself doing research on his phone, and when she went to bed had refused the spare room with a dismissive wave of his hand and a muttered '…work to do…..' As if he had not already had a long day from a surprise standing start.

Something he had seen in the newspaper had disturbed him, too; she had asked, but he did not tell her what. Had simply ignored her and taken himself to a corner of the sofa and drawn inexorably inside himself, and forgotten her. She was not offended or puzzled any more; she was getting used to his extremes of focus, his lack of social niceties.

She watched with fascination as he turned inwards again, becoming silent, absorbed, and forgot she was even there. She could almost hear his brain working and shook her head in something between fascination and puzzlement at the sight. Watched those strange bright eyes darken and become hooded, that aristocratic mobile face freeze and focus down.

All that seemed to move then were those long artist's hands racing across the keyboard. The occasional tiny frown of thought.

She knew she would tell Piet Bruhl about what had happened, about the process of working with Sherlock Holmes on a case; although not so much working with the man as trailing along behind in the wake of his computer brain and his laser vision. Of being intrigued by that.

And she could imagine Piet Bruhl's knowing smile and even more knowing tilt of the head; that little reflective: "I did warn you….." Because he had. And she had thought he was exaggerating, joking, boasting on behalf of this other man he, on such slight acquaintance, already called a trusted friend.

Now that friend passed her his notes, put his hands together beneath his chin as if in prayer, and began.

"Murder in such an enclosed environment as Golden Valley is always going to be someone who is a part of that place; strangers are too easy to be noticed and observed. Old people with nothing better to do become hyper vigilant. Yet still an eminent number of possibilities. Every resident, every employee, every visiting tradesman or delivery man. Everyone who could render themselves invisible. Yes?"

She nodded. It made sense.

"I spoke to everyone on site, you were with me. Residents, cleaners, the manager. But it was never going to be him, never Sven Lund. He is far too happy to be in a soft job, hugging his desk and watching tourist videos, to be the killer; an outsider and a voyeur of sorts. Not a man of decision. So you tell me: what was unusual about the victims? Who stands out?"

"Lasse Olsen? Because he was younger? Died eating his meal rather than sitting in an armchair?"

"Good. So the assumption is?"

"He was not a planned victim. His demise was impulsive but also imperative. Perhaps he understood what he saw? Or just noted a break in a pattern, but may still tell someone about it? Or may have seen something, but not realised the importance? But the murderer did not intend to wait for Lasse to put two and two together."

"Indeed. Remember what everyone said about him?"

"Friendly, full of advice about little jobs around the homes, after all his experience as a caretaker. Chatty. Nosey."

"Exactly! Nosey. So there he was, an alert, curious man learning about his new environment - and he spotted something, whatever it was. So he had to go. Everything points to the killer just walking in and killing him - no preamble, no negotiation. Killed swiftly in the usual way. Cutlery put back into his hands to fool any investigation. Something to show he keeled over eating his pickled herring, not deliberately killed."

"The smell of fish. At Helle Bek's house. You said you could smell fish."

"Indeed I did, But not because of a meal. Helle never ate fish, as her neighbour told us. So there is the mystery of where that smell came from. But that gave me an idea. So:" he sat forward, both their concentrations engaged. "What else was unusual?"

She sat and thought for long moments, and then tentatively suggested:

" That Nguyen Hang Hoa - Bian Torsten - was Vietnamese?"

"Excellent, Christina!" He flashed her a kindly yet distracted smile as if she was a bright pupil from whom he only ever expected the right answers, and she could not resist beaming back at him; his power was infectious. "I have been doing a great deal of research about Fru Torsten.

"She left Vietnam in 1976 with her husband, a year after the Vietnam War ended. Records show she fought on the front line in the Women's Armed Forces Corps in South Vietnam, was also in military intelligence. Women served alongside men in Vietnam's long war, and were considered as ruthless. No Western preconceptions of femininity or chivalry there," he added as he saw he surprised reaction.

" Every little old man or little old lady has a past, Christina. And sometimes more telling than others. So always reassess what you think you saw, and always dig a little deeper…" He paused, thought, nodded.

"Her father disagreed with her marrying a foreigner. He protested. Died two weeks before Bian left Vietnam for good….natural causes, apparently."

"Please don't tell me he was found sitting in a chair with not a mark on him?" Christina asked in disbelief.

"But of course," The smile he gave her was cynical, yet honest.

"So how do we get from that to this? She can't have used the same method to kill the others? Not when she was already dead herself."

Sherlock Holmes nodded and sipped his tea.

"We will come to the method later. But I told you yesterday. That you saw, but did not observe." He paused while she thought, but drew a blank, and capitulated. "The pendant Aksel Sov was wearing. Remember it?"

"He said it was in memory of his mother. It had lilacs on it, Her favourite flower."

"Exactly so. An interesting little tale made up on the spot. The pendant is actually a now defunct Vietnamese ten dong coin, and the so called lilac flowers are really a cluster of rice stalks and flowers. So few people know what rice looks like unless it is processed and under a curry," he reflected with a wry grin

"Oh!"

"'Oh' indeed. Need I tell you Aksel's mother is alive and well and living in Odense? Where another story teller, Hans Christian Anderson came from. Synchronicity, yes? So Bian - who was indeed a woman of many secrets, as her nickname implied - killed her father and brought with her to the west not only all his money and possessions, but a sentimental little coin she had had made into a pendant. For on the reverse of the coin are the words Viet Nam Cong Hoa - it means Vietnam Free Republic, but the final word is actually Hoa, meaning flower - her name. Sentiment. Beware of it. It is always revealing.

"You said Vietnamese names are supposed to reflect their owner's soul."

"Just so. She thought she was very clever to call herself Bian from then on. Giving herself a secret compliment no-one else would understand. A superiority. And I have also learnt that some years ago a next door neighbour died unexpectedly in the same way. She and Bian had argued about noise from the neighbour's house. So Bian had retained both the ability, and the murder weapon. Another unexpected and unsuspected death.

"But at some point many years later, old and alone, and now a very different human being to the ruthless and selfish person she was at that time, she gave that little sentimental thing away to Aksel Sov.

"Because he befriended her. Because he may have been the only person she met genuinely interested in Vietnamese art and culture - no-one else at Golden Valley was, we asked everyone yesterday. Who knows which? Always look for signs of sentiment, Christine. They are a chink in a villain's armour, and give away much."

He moved those steepled hands, pointed at her with the long forefingers as if pointing a gun; making his point.

"You think the murderer is Aksel Sov?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I suspect he feels he has a mission. To play God. He wallows in philosophy, as he told us. He dropped out of university because real life was too hard for his tender psyche. The classic case of a sensitive bringing salvation to the elderly. An angel of death. He thinks he is doing a good thing. Once he had found out with Bian how easy it was to kill.

"When he started this by killing a friend, every death was only going to get easier. And then he found he did not know how to stop. Even if he had wanted to"

"So why do you feel he may kill again today?"

"Because the police are investigating. He needs them to be impressed by him. His process, his decisions beyond the merely mortal decisions of life and death. And how better a way to impress than to kill again, and under their noses?"

"But the murder method, Sherlock? Asphyxiation always shows up….and these bodies don't give any clues at all…..and we checked for carbon monoxide poisoning, the usual opiates, strangulation, all the obvious things."

"Something rare and unusual, but not unrecorded. Wait and see. Come! We need to move to get on site before anyone else….."

All then became a whirlwind of motion as they showered and dressed and prepared for the day, took Christina Ravn's own Alfa Romeo Guilietta back to the little development and parked in the residents communal car park. Two uniformed officers sat in a plan Ford alongside them. And they waited.

"Any idea where the killer may strike?" she asked.

He shrugged, slumped down in the passenger seat, eyes everywhere, scanning, using the rear and wing mirrors for an almost 360 degree view.

"Can't be sure. But Maja Alexander is one of the oldest residents and the earliest riser. She has arthritis - remember her? - and finds life more comfortable sitting in her chair rather than lying down in bed. And she has been complaining about a broken window latch, the manager told me yesterday. Or is that too obvious?"

"Her place is just on the corner."

"Yes. We should have a view of any visitors."

There was a long yet comfortable silence.

"If you are right…." Christian Ravn began, then hesitated. He turned his head to her, but did not respond. "If you are right you will have brought a killer to justice. Vindicated my stand."

"Of course," he said calmly. "That is what I do."

They relapsed into silence again.

Slowly the little community came to life. Sven Lund parked his Volvo nearby, walked past the rear of the Guilietta without even noticing them. He carried a lunchbox and a paperback book.

Four cleaners arrived together, chatting and oblivious, and followed him towards the offices. As they entered Aksel Sov came out. In grey chinos and a green sweater he passed the entrance to the car park carrying a toolbox.

Christina Ravn touched Sherlock's Holmes' wrist, ready to go. But the single word: "Wait" held her and the uniformed officers back. And only when they saw the deputy manager turn into the little bungalow's garden and let himself into the front door with a pass key did all four of them pour out of their cars and run.

Uniformed officers to the back door, Sherlock and Christina to the front. They paused and listened; heard a soft murmur of voices.

She tried the door, but it was locked. Huffed an anxious breath. Looked up into Sherlock Holmes' eyes with a concerned expression.

"Let me," he breathed. Took a small roll of fabric from his coat pocket. Opened it, took out something stainless steel and shiny and with a quick twist of his wrists the lock was open and the door silently swinging ajar.

She had no time to ask him how he did that before he was stepping through the gap and she was following him, heedless of etiquette or police protocol.

In the cosy little sitting room Maja Alexander had taken to her electric recliner armchair with her breakfast on a side table, as usual. Ready to watch the breakfast news and complain at the weather forecast.

But what was not usual was Aksel Sov standing over her, dropping something soft and silvery over her head and grasping her wrists even as he spoke quietly and conversationally to her about the repair he was about to make on her bedroom window.

Sherlock Holmes stepped five long strides forward in a blue of movement and took Aksel Sov by the back of the neck, applying a sleep hold with one hand that had the young man suddenly boneless on the floor, his hands falling away from the old lady, who was making feeble noises of fear, like a small seabird. Christina Raven pulled whatever it was from over her head and held onto it while soothing Fru Alexander with the other hand and her voice.

As the two uniformed police officers stormed in from the back and took control Christina Ravn's eyes met those of Sherlock Holmes. Her eyes were glittering with triumph. But his were dark and blank, with no expression whatsoever.

o0o0o0o

"Tell me, then. How did you know?"

He shrugged a little, smiled a little, toyed with the mug of designer coffee she had bought him as they sat in the coffee shop of the Utzen Centre.

"I have made a study of unusual murder weapons, This one seemed especially apt in the circumstances. That vague smell of fish. And of course the Vietnamese connection was a huge clue."

She shook her head. And grinned at him.

"You. Are. Unbelievable," she said. "Eat your cake."

She had treated him to the largest and most ornate slice of chocolate cake she had been able to find as a thank you.

"Whatever made you think I would eat this?" he had asked her sternly, waving a cake fork in mid-air.

"Because everyone loves chocolate cake," she said as if refusing to acknowledge anything different. "Even Sherlock Holmes."

He laughed then. A proper, deep chortling baritone laugh. Plain and uncomplicated. And on impulse she reached over, grasped his chin, and kissed him full on the mouth. He tasted of coffee and cake and determination, and smelt of soap and fresh air.

"Don't," he said. The word came out as if forced through his teeth, and she backed off instantly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything by it, it was just…"

"No. Please. No explanation. Forget it."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stand on the toes of your girlfriend…"

"No girlfriend."

"….boyfriend, then."

"Not one of those, either."

"Oh? Never mind. We'll just say I'm too old for you and leave it at that."

"I'm sorry. I don't…." he stumbled over words. "I am just….The Work."

"Yes. I do see."

And she did. Work with a capital letter. Saw the fever in his blood, saw the energy and intelligence, saw the compulsion. The driven personality that saw no point in the personal.

She looked at him with comprehending assessment, and thought it was such a waste; to never allow himself to love, to refuse the existence of anyone he might love, or would love him in return. Because to be cherished by this man would be both precious and life enhancing, she realised. He looked up and caught her expression.

Thank you, Christina."

"What for?"

"Rescuing me from purdah. Making me function. Dragging me out of seclusion."

She squirmed a little, embarrassed. "I needed your help."

"And perhaps I needed yours."

"Call it quits, then?" She suddenly grinned at him. "Until I need you the next time?"

And he laughed then. Offered her a taste of his chocolate cake.

o0o0o0o

The five of them had looked at Aksel Sov crumpled on the floor. While Christina Ravn held up what looked like a pillowcase of the finest chain mail as Maja Alexandra tried to decide whether to be quietly stoical or nosily hysterical.

In view of the quiet and businesslike stance of the two policemen, the tall lean man and the tall beautiful woman, she decided stoicism was best.

"What in God's name is this, Sherlock?" Christina Ravn asked as the consulting detective took the thing into his own hands, weighed it and examined it. It looked almost like a superior sort of bin bag when open, yet folded down as small as a head square.

"This is as unique a murder weapon as you will ever see", he told her. Spreading the thing so all could observe. Something grey, and lissom, and as soft and fine as silk.

"This is the membrane from a giant Vietnamese stingray," explained Sherlock Holmes.. "Probably the largest freshwater creature in the world, very little known or seen, scientifically identified less than twenty years ago, with a highly venomous tail, and about the size of a small bus.

"The membrane is desperately fine, yet completely impermeable. Still smells slightly fishy…what I kept smelling. Drop it over someone's head, the membrane attaches instantly to the skin. The victim dies in record speed without even knowing they are suffocating. A fabled silent killer of Asian gangland mythology. Very rare."

He turned to watch the murderer struggling to sit up and open his eyes.

"This was Bian's?" he asked imperiously.

Aksel Sov looked up at him with large tear rimmed eyes. Recognised he had been caught, recognised he had been identified as the killer. Was defeated, fatalistic yet also oddly proud of himself.

"Yes, of course. She wanted me to have it, you see. Understood my mission to help God in his progress to rid the world of those no longer useful. She didn't think much of her neighbours here." He lifted a dismissive shoulder, unmoved.

"But alas, she wanted money I did not have to sell me this thing so I could start my mission. So of course she had to be the first person to go. It seemed only fair. Do you understand? Especially after she had showed me this ghostly killing thing. Told me what it could do."

"Oh, yes," Sherlock Holmes replied with an odd note of sympathy in his voice. "Of course I do. People need to understand and appreciate you, Aksel."

He paused, turned his head. Christina Ravn could see him flaring his nostrils, sniffing the air like a dog.

"You suffer from chapped hands, Aksel. Do you use one of those Nordic fisherman's ointments?"

"Of course….."

"Grease, on the victims, That is what it is, tell Ebbe. Another proof positive to incriminate the killer."

He nodded, almost to himself.

"Over to you, Fru Inspektor Ravn. Arrest and caution your serial killer."

o0o0o0o

"Solving a string of serial murders is easy. Easy! So why is it that the world over, sorting out the paperwork is something else?"

It had been a long day, and this time Christina Ravn insisted on buying Sherlock Holmes an evening meal. So they ended up in a Chinese restaurant near the Utzen Centre, at _Vandmargenen - The Water Margin_.

And she wondered why she was not surprised at his dexterity with chopsticks or ability to converse in Mandarin with the head waiter. To explain that _The Water Margin_ was one of the four great Chinese classical novels, or to discourse on Shandong cuisine, the spices and flavours, the high heat frying to retain natural taste, to order Dezhou pa ji chicken for them both.

He had chosen well, and she was enjoying both the meal and the company.

Until an acquaintance, being guided by a waiter to his own table, trailed a hand across her shoulder and murmured a quiet greeting.

"Good evening, Christina."

She looked and then smiled up into the face of a tall slim man with sandy hair and beard, wearing wire rimmed glasses and a smart grey suit.

"Good evening," she said. "Not your regular restaurant this evening?"

"Sometimes only a Chinese meal will do," he responded smoothly. Touched her hand.

She collected herself, gestured towards Sherlock across the table from her. A Sherlock suddenly stilled and impassive.

"Let me introduce you," she said politely. "Sherlock, this is Pedder Magnussen, neighbour and local businessman. Pedder, this is my friend Sherlock Holmes, who is….."

"….a mere musician," Sherlock Holmes interrupted, standing to shake the hand of Charles Augustus Magnussen's younger brother.

"Christina may be tone deaf herself, but she knows how to catch my interest, Mr Holmes. A musician, you say?"

"Yes, sir."

Something subtle had altered in his body language, softened, become more pliant, less masculine, shoulders lowering. The eyes changed from imperious to immature and eager. The voice rose an octave, the usual crisp annunciation flattening. Christina Ravn watched the change happen, not understanding why, but with mute fascination.

"Which instrument?"

"I specialise in the violin, Hr Magnussen. Solo violin."

"Obviously." Magnussen quirked a smile towards the affable young man " You have your instrument with you?"

"No, sorry. I arrived in Aalborg unexpectedly for a couple of days. Didn't want to bring it with me."

"Valuable, then?"

"A Guarneri. A family piece. Inherited from my grandmother. Who inherited it from her grandfather."

Peddar Magnussen pulled out a chair and joined them at the table.

"Fascinating," he said. "Beautiful instruments, all of them. Which family member made it?"

Sherlock Holmes looked into pale blue eyes in a face so like his adversary's he felt as if he had been kicked in the head and his soul was emptying out of his body. He must have turned pale and looked faint, because Peddar Magnussen looked at him and there was concern in his eyes suddenly.

"Are you OK, young man?"

 _Concern for a stranger. This is not Charles. This is his brother. Not Charles. No threat. Not Charles. Someone told me - who told me? - he had not spoken to either of his brothers for more than twenty years…..Not Charles._

"Yes. Fine. Always fine." he flapped a dismissive hand. "Been busy. Not eaten. Just a bit light headed. Sorry."

"That's quite true," Christina agreed with a laugh, and the odd feeling that something dangerous had just been narrowly avoided. Something she did not understand. Did not understand why Sherlock Holmes had not wanted her to reveal that he was a detective. "I can tell you this absolute truth, though - over the last two days the only thing I have seen him eat until now is a single slice of chocolate cake."

Pedder Magnussen put his head back and laughed. A proper amused laugh. And first Sherlock Holmes, and then Christina Ravn, joined in. And suddenly they were a trio of friends, a party, almost, and Pedder Magnussen was joining them and eating with them, and they were chatting in a relaxed fashion as if old friends. As if the shadow of Charles Augustus Magnussen did not lie between them.

But Sherlock Holmes was being watchful, and careful, although only he was fully aware of this. So he ate and laughed, wearing this different personality and voice, and told stories, and entertained the policewoman and the businessman.

And as they were finishing their meal and drinking their coffee he said, as if absently:

"This is a strange coincidence, but I know a Danish businessman. Back in London. Whose name is also Magnussen. I played my violin for him. A private engagement. Is Magnusson a common Danish surname?" The query sounded open hearted and naïve. As intended.

Pedder Magnussen's smile faded.

"Not especially," he replied, and perhaps only Sherlock Holmes noted the change in the voice, the slight withdrawal. Sherlock bent innocently to his coffee, not picking up the ball he had so unexpectedly thrown into play. A pause, then:

"Small world indeed. And what was the name of this other Magnussen you played for?"

"Oh, erm, let me think," He frowned, and decided timing was everything. "Charles, I think. Charles something. An unusual name… oh, I know. Augustus. Charles Augustus Magnussen. Shall I top up the coffees? Christina? Pedder…..?"

Pedder Magnussen caught his wrist as he reached politely for the coffee percolator and for a heartbeat the world stopped turning. This other Magnussen was silent, focussed down. Staring at the scars on the wrist he was holding of the young man before him without seeing them or him. Exposing scars to an uncomprehending Christina Ravn.

"How do you know this man?"

"I don't. Not really. An accidental meeting, I suppose you would call it….."

In the boardroom at CAM News. When being interviewed by Kitty. That sharp fingernail digging into the back of his neck. Twice. Demanding reaction. Nor getting it.

"… he just asked me….well, commissioned me, really….to play a violin solo for him in a private performance."

The voice was still an octave higher than Christina Ravn was used to; still acting then. But there was truth there, too. She watched him, both of them now on high alert.

A little hesitant. Nervous eyes, twitchy hands, appearing modest, puzzled, ingenuously uncomfortable. Christine watched the acting performance of a master. She would complain to Piet Bruhl. He had told her about Sherlock Holmes. But he had not prepared her for Sherlock Holmes…..

Blinking, a frown, modest apology: "Sorry; have I said something wrong?"

"He does not like classical music, this other Magnussen. What did you play?"

"Erm…some Danish folk music. A Bach partita. But he first saw me playing Le Clair. The Violin Sonata in D Major. Opus Nine, Number Three."

Pedder Magnussen surged to his feet. Threw money down to pay the bill. Snapped his fingers.

"Come with me. Both of you."

And he was striding out of the restaurant, somewhere between disturbed and committed. Christina Ravn and Sherlock Holmes looked at each other, then got to their feet and followed him.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"Voyage of discovery?" he returned.

They followed the suited back round corners, down steps and ended up at the stage door to the concert hall.

Passed the startled stage door keeper with a terse -"They're with me" - and were in the backstage corridors.

"I am on the board of trustees here," Pedder Magnussen threw back at them in explanation as they walked at a fast pace through the labyrinth of identical corridors, peered into the glass of a few anonymous doors until he found what he as looking for. A small soundproofed room with nothing inside but four spartan chairs and a music stand. A music cell, used for playing practise.

"Sit. Wait. Won't be a minute," he said, and withdrew.

"Any idea what we're doing here?" she hissed.

"Not a clue. Though I suspect all will be made clear before long," he replied.

"Who - what - is Pedder's brother? How do you know him? And why are you trying to make him think you are a violinist? Of all things?"

"No time to explain now. Just back me up. Whatever I do. Whatever needs doing."

She nodded and he flashed a grin at her. Bright and uncomplicated.

"You're mad!" she exclaimed, reading his suddenly reckless mood.

"Heard that before," he observed drily. And they were laughing together when Pedder Magnussen returned.

He was clutching a bow, and a violin by the neck. Which he thrust into Sherlock Holmes' hands.

"There's a recording going on here this evening. Full orchestra and more. Managed to borrow a violin for half an hour. So play. Convince me you are what you say you are and you're not shooting me a line."

"Why would I do that?"

"It would not be the first time. People trying to get to my brother through me. A man who does not, as far as I am aware, care in the least about classical music. Or musicians."

His look said everything.

Sherlock Holmes grasped the violin, accepted the challenge. Tipped the violin to his collar bone settled it, under his chin. Raised the bow.

"It is notoriously difficult to play a violin one does not know. But I shall do my best."

He put the bow to the strings, tried notes, adjusted the pegs and tuned the violin, collected himself.

"Violin Sonata in D Major, Opus Nine, Number Three, By Jean Marie Le Clair."

He took a deep breath, looked Christine Ravn in the eye. And winked. She smiled at him and relaxed; realising she had probably looked terrified - on his behalf.

But as soon as the bow touched the strings she knew she had been worrying for nothing. She knew little of classical music, but instinctively knew the playing of the stately opening was commanding, and virtuosic violin playing. Baroque and ornate to begin, the music flowed from him as he played the entire eleven minute piece from memory.

His body moved and curled into the music, the skirt of his jacket swirling. Eyes half closed as he concentrated, long artistic hands dancing across the strings. She risked a glance at Pedder Magnussen, who was sitting in the little room with his arms crossed, watching, listening, still and impassive.

This musical Magnussen, and musical experts, would have talked about wonderful drone effects on open strings, beautiful double stopping and spun musical phrases. All the police inspector could have told anyone afterwards was that it was beautiful, lilting, serious and bighearted, slow and fast, animated and reflective.

Finally the captivating music stopped. Almost abruptly. No flourish, no artistic bow to the audience of two. Sherlock Holmes simply drew a deep breath, lifted the bow from the strings and took a long slow blink, looking at Pedder Magnussen. For a moment the silence was deafening.

"Charles Augustus Magnussen heard you play that?"

"Yes. He told me he watched the video of me playing that at a function about twenty times. I do hope he was exaggerating."

Magnussen ignored the self deprecating irony, concentrated fiercely.

"Christina, my dear girl. Would you mind leaving us for a few moments? I need to speak to your friend alone. The green room is open just down the corridor to your right, if you would like a hot drink….while you wait?"

With only a glance flicked in Sherlock Holmes' direction, she quietly did as she was bid. But Pedder Magnussen did not speak again until the door clicked shut and her footsteps along the corridor were silenced.

"Who are you?" the older man asked.

"Sherlock Holmes. Just a musician….."

"No you are not. Not a professional musician anyway. You are good enough to be a professional soloist, yet I do not know your name or your face. And I would, believe me."

"I was planning to be a soloist, but broke a wrist as a teenager."

"Good answer, but not what I asked."

Sherlock Holmes looked long and assessing at Pedder Magnussen. No anger, no defensive posturing. Just calm and thoughtful interest. Would the truth hurt?

"I have been working with Christina. A couple of days, that's all. We have decided she is too old for me."

 _Deflect. Distract. Dissemble._

"You are a policeman?"

"Do I look like a policeman?"

For the first time in that room the older man smiled. Unbent a little.

"Before you ask: I have no romantic interest in the Inspekter," he said. "We are neighbours who know each other casually and so sometimes dine together if in the same restaurant by accident. Both of us are divorced, and neither of us are interested in learning to cook."

"I see. Thank you. Christina is a colleague," Sherlock replied, added. "And that is all."

"And is my brother a colleague of yours, Mr Holmes?"

"No."

"Is he a target for her? "

Romantically?"

"A case. You can tell me, I am no fool. Would not be surprised."

 _Well, strictly speaking….._

"No."

"My brother is not a classical music fan. The only things he enjoys in life are himself and exerting power. So why is he interested in you?"

 _Now there's a question! How long have you got?"_

"I don't know."

"May I speak plainly?"

"Please do."

"You may or may not know, but my brother is a self made millionaire, in media and publishing. But his career started here, in Aalborg. Sometimes people who are interested in him come here to try to research his background, his career path. Sometimes they target Johan and myself, his brothers. He has no other family."

"I am sorry to hear that."

"It is no matter," Pedder Magnussen made a lazy sweep of one hand, dismissive, unperturbed. "But I shall tell you what I tell everyone who asks. My brother has not communicated with either of us for twenty six years, since our parents died. We do not mourn that loss."

" I understand. I do not have an easy relationship with my own brother."

 _Sorry, Mycroft. Took your name in vain again._

"Really? Few people admit such….disloyalty."

"You cannot choose your family. I tell myself that often."

"Indeed so," and he nodded thoughtfully. And repeated himself.

"Why is my brother interested in you?"

"I don't know."

"Mr Holmes. My brother started his career in publishing here in Aalborg. At twenty years of age he took over a cheap little magazine called _Skin._ Any idea what that might be about?"

"Not the art of tattooing, at a guess?"

"Quite so. I do not tell you this to be repeated, but I have always had my fears as to how he became connected with that company. And what he did to take it over, or to earn the money to do so, at such a young age."

"You were never close then? As brothers?

"My brother Charles has never been close to anyone. That is his nature. So I do wonder why he displays an interest in you and has you play the violin for him. Does he appeal to you in some way?"

"Not at all. I am merely a workman for hire. And he hired."

"I am no fool, Mr Holmes, and I know my brother. Which is another reason he does not like me even near his life. Has he attempted to wine and dine you yet? Excuse me for asking, but has he made sexual advances towards you?"

 _Don't ask. Don't push. Don't see._

"Why would you ask?"

"Because as well as being a first class musician you are - if you forgive me for saying so - unusual, attractive and highly intelligent. A rare combination. And that would appeal to him."

"I'm not gay."

Pedder Magnussen laughed and patted Sherlock Holmes on the shoulder.

"And why do you feel you need to tell me that? Or think that would make any difference to my brother?"

Taken aback, he knew he had to make some sort of reply.

"I…..don't know, really. Just thought I should mention it, I suppose."

"You are clever, and a challenge to him. That is enough. So he may target you. Seduce you. I offer these remarks as observations only. How you take them away with you is your business."

"Thank you. Nice to know."

"I am not being facetious, Mr Holmes. You really do not need my brother to pay you any attention."

"And why is that?"

"I regret to admit that my brother is a predator. Always has been. And you know the thing never to forget about predators? They eat almost everything and every one they come across."

"He is not going to eat me."

Pedder Magnussen slowly shook his head.

"You are far from the first person to say that. Which is how he built his business empire. Letting other people destroy themselves by assuming he has the human capacity to be kind, honourable. Exhibit human decency. That never happens. So he always wins. I would hate him to win against you."

"Why me?"

"Not you, not anyone else, is perhaps what I really meant." He looked into the quiet grey eyes of the younger man. "I have confided facts to you no-one else is ever told. So tell me now. Who are you? Really? And what do you do?"

Sherlock Holmes took a deep breath. Stopped acting. Squared his shoulders and returned to his normal voice.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am a consulting detective."

Pedder Magnussen slapped one hand on his thigh in what looked remarkably like glee. "Oh! So - well played! You are an admirable foe. Does he know you pursue him? Or does he think he is in pursuit of you?"

"He thinks he holds me captive."

There was a long silence as Charles Augustus Magnussen's brother looked deep into the eyes of Sherlock Holmes and tried to read what he saw contained there.

"What has he done to you? Destroyed your business? Your reputation? Broken a friend? Blackmailed a relation? Ruined a client? A friend? A lover?"

"I am tempted to say all of those things, Hr Magnussen."

"But what has he done to you, Mr Holmes? You, particularly?"

"Nothing at all," he lied. "But many trails lead back to Charles. And it is time they were ended."

"Indeed so. I agree. As would our brother Johan, if he was here having this discussion with us.

"Because one of the first things to know about our brother is so very simple. Like a cat with a mouse, once you have been in his clutches he never lets go. And you never survive him. Not whole, anyway."

"So what do you suggest?"

"My brother is like a cat, Mr Holmes. He always lands on his feet, and he always enjoys nine lives. But there is one very sad thing about cats…."

"Which is?"

"The number of them you see squashed on the road in arguments with cars. Or with a juggernaut. Might you be that so very welcome juggernaut, Sherlock Holmes?"

TO BE CONTINUED…

 **Author's Notes:**

The serial killings detailed in both this chapter and the previous one, and the unusual instrument of death, come from, and are based upon, a real life case in the Rotterdam area of Holland in the 1960's.

Purdah: In this context, a state of seclusion or secrecy.

Shandong Chinese cuisine comes from North China, and is known as the mother of all Chinese cookery; ancient styles and recipes. Mainly pork, chicken and fish dishes, all lightly spiced and a little salty. With the accent on natural flavours.

The green room of any theatre or concert hall is the cafe cum rest room for performers only and not a public space

Sherlock plays the violin for Magnussen in private performance in Chapter 13. But his first performance as seen by Magnussen on video, comes in Chapter 1. Not on YouTube, sadly, but other violinists are available,


	33. Chapter 33

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 33:'the words that you use…'

"Call for you, doctor. Private patient. A Mr Baskerville."

John Watson sighed and dropped his head. Receptionists were supposed to fend people off, not allow them through, especially at this time of night, right at the end of his shift. As if the day had not been busy enough…..

"Thank you, Pat. Put him through." He pulled a breath. "John Watson," he said after the click on the line showed the call had been transferred.

"John."

One word. Just one word - his name - and he was back on the roller coaster ride. He turned his eyes heavenwards for inspiration and courage.

"Why nor ring my mobile? Or text?"

"No signal. No time. Need to see you soonest."

"I thought you were still…..away?"

"I am. Officially."

"And unofficially?"

"In the pub round the corner."

John Watson laughed then. Oh, the irony! Sherlock Holmes - who did not drink - sitting in a pub on his own, hugging a pint. Lovely.

"I'm just finishing for the day. You just caught me. Ten minutes."

"No. I'll come to you."

"Come round to the flat with me, then. Mary would love to see you. We'll put a meal together and catch up….."

"No. Mary must not know. Give her some excuse. Stay behind after the surgery closes. I'll come to you."

And because he had worked with Sherlock Holmes for so long, kept secrets and moved secretly so often, he did not cavil or question, just said:

"OK. Rear entrance. In fifteen."

"Thank you, John."

And the call ended.

John Watson felt a need to pull himself together. Sat a moment bent over his now disgarded paperwork with his head in his hands, then sent a delaying text to Mary and made the usual excuses about late patients and workload. Texts were the main form of communication between them these days. Under the same roof, but rarely in the same room.

Just temporary, he kept telling himself. Until he could forgive her. For lying and shooting and living.

He said his goodnights to the reception staff and murmured something about paperwork and workload as they left the building and left him behind. Something not unusual these days, as he often avoided going home for as long as he could.

And when the last person had gone and the building was dark and quiet, he went to the rear entrance of the building and opened the outside door, spilling a pool of light into the yard.

Between the waste bins there was a flurry of movement as a tall figure moved from the shadows. Skin tight jeans, sneakers, baseball jacket over a long sweatshirt with hood up. Long greasy blond hair scraped back off a long alien's face with generous mouth and sharp cheekbones that cast their own deceptive shadows.

"Clear off! Don't hang about here! No drugs to nick, and the CCTV will pick you up…." he began, his voice edgy with surprise; it should be Sherlock Holmes there, not some street lowlife.

"Me, John," said the alien.

And John Watson stepped back in surprise, allowed Sherlock Holmes to cross the threshold and then he closed the door behind them.

"Well!" he said, looking up into a façade he did not know, and a face he barely recognised. "I wouldn't have known you. Why the amateur dramatics?"

Under a pool of harsh white light Sherlock looked like an alabaster statue, and was as expressionless.

"Need a head start on things before people know I am here. Hit the ground running."

"So you finally decided to come back then?"

"No choice."

Watson led the way into his surgery. Desk, sink, examination couch, screen, filing cabinet, two chairs. A sterile, minimalist environment.

"Coffee?" he asked. And Sherlock nodded. Stood immobile by the corner of the desk as Watson busied himself with water and percolator, gathered two fairly clean mugs. For a moment the only sound was the water bubbling in the machine.

"Are we still on for next week, then? Christmas with the Holmes family?"

"Of course. That's why I'm here. Really…."

The final word made Watson turn and look searchingly in the direction of Sherlock Holmes, who was so unnaturally quiet John Watson kept looking at him to see if he was missing something; some signal, some gesture, some secret tell of body language.

Watson made a leap of understanding.

"What are you here to say you don't want Mary to hear? Or know about?"

A look of sharp empathy was shot across the room to meet him, and John Watson reflected that much as he wanted that old easement back in their relationship, he possibly did not want to know what was running round his friend's head at that very moment.

"We need a little chat, John. The sort of chat you don't want and the sort of chat I do not have. Ever. But sometimes I suppose there has to be an exception that proves the rule."

It was the sad, contemplative tone of the delivery that worried him. So he leaned forwards and said a little too sharply:

"What?"

His friend just looked down at him without saying another word. So John Watson added two teaspoons of sugar to the Cornish ware blue and white ringed mug, stirred thoroughly and handed it to Sherlock Holmes. Who looked away from him then and buried his nose in the coffee, remained silent, and looked like some recalcitrant child summoned to the headmaster's office. Yet he had contrived this meeting, this very conversation.

"Out with it, Sherlock, Another difficult little chat, is this? With you still not looking like yourself? Makes that easier does it? Talking while not being you?"

"Yes, it does. For what that's worth."

"Thought you might not come back. Thought you were going to retire and find yourself your own desert island?" The words pressed, looking for an opening without making one, yet did not know why. John Watson was uneasy.

"It's still tempting. But I can't leave unfinished business." He looked up then, and without preamble demanded:

"Have you forgiven her yet?"

John Watson took an involuntary step backwards and disguised it by turning away to pick up his own drink.

"Who…..?" he began, stalling for time. But he wasn't allowed that chance.

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. Who else could I possibly mean but Mary?" And then repeated himself. "Have you forgiven her yet?"

Watson lifted his shoulders in a slow, perplexed shrug.

"How can I? Why should I?"

Sherlock Holmes sighed and rapped the nails of one hand impatiently against his coffee mug. The sound seemed very loud.

"How can you? Easily. Why should you? Because I do."

"It's not that easy, Sherlock."

Yes it is, John. It is." With a quiet and compelling force.

"Why are you even here? What's this about?"

"I need to know where you are, Where we all are. And I won't know that until I know what is going on between Dr and Mrs Watson."

John Watson braced his shoulders and suddenly found the linoleum in front of his feet fascinating.

"I need to know, John. Are you still sleeping in the spare room? "

Too embarrassed to speak, he simply nodded.

"Sex?"

"Sherlock!"

"Sorry, But I must know."

"Why must you know?"

"Because I do! Don't make this more difficult than it is, John."

The voice was still soft and cajoling, but John Watson could tell it was an effort. Not the sort of effort Sherlock Holmes usually made So unlike the normal arrogant timbre that John Watson had to look up to make sure it was coming from the same person.

"No, then."

"That is not good. You love her. She loves you. Loves you so much she shot me to save you. Get your head round that."

"But she shot you! It's what I can't get past: My wife. Shot you. My wife shot my best friend. My wife shot the person who….." his voice trailed to a halt. "Well….you know."

"No. I don't know. But that doesn't matter. I didn't go away for all these weeks to expect you to be still in limbo. Life is too short for all this pride and hurt feelings thing, John. What is important is that you and Mary sort yourselves out. Before the baby comes. Before Christmas."

"My God, Sherlock! You're not asking for much, are you?"

"No, I'm not. You should have had this sorted out weeks - months - ago. But no - both of you are lost in your own hangups. The damaged doctor. The embarrassed assassin. Husband and wife not thinking about their baby. Or even each other. Get real, John."

"Marriage guidance from Sherlock Holmes. That's a first. And ridiculous."

The tall blond alien man in front of him carefully put down his coffee, took two steps across the room and grasped John Watson by the elbows.

This was not Sherlock Holmes, John Watson thought, shocked and unable to physically react. Sherlock Holmes did not behave like this. Sherlock Holmes did not reach out and touch. Or talk of love. This was not the man he knew so well, This was some blond alien stranger visiting England. An alien who lived in his own world on his own island, untouched by reason and reality. This is….

"This is bloody madness, Sherlock!"

He tore himself free of his friends hands, stepped back and away, panting with the effort of trying to escape and not spill his coffee.

Sherlock Holmes, he now knew, was strong again. Strong, determined and single minded. Much as part of John Watson's heart thrilled at that return to form, his brain shied away from the action his friend was trying to drive him to.

"No, Sherlock. I can't do this. Not now."

"Yes you can. You must. You are running out of time. The baby will soon be born. Your family will be complete. You must let Mary back into your life and your heart. Now. Or you will miss the chance and lose each other forever."

"And what the fuck has it got to do with you?" It was the truth that stung, he realised. As well as the speaking of it. He had spent months avoiding both. Trust Sherlock bloody Holmes to wade straight in with both feet, as usual

"Everything. It has everything to do with me. I am the reason for your problems. If I hadn't been dead you wouldn't have needed…." he searched for a word that would be adequate, "A substitute. Me coming back from the dead put a spoke in the wheel, upset all your plans for a new life. Threw you into disarray. Upset Mary so she shot me…"

"Will you stop going on about that!"

"I would love to. But we can't just forget it, can we? Not even I can."

"You forget it. Then we can forget it as well." The doctor nodded agreement with fierce determination. Fear does that, he thought; makes you over act, over react.

"We can't. This is all tied to Magnussen. Mary and Magnussen. And that is a situation I did not create."

John Watson could not deny that barb, so remained silent. The look of bleak and blind bafflement he gave his friend said it all. And Sherlock Holmes' face twisted in sympathy. John Watson watched that rare thing happen and was horrified.

"Have you looked at that memory stick yet? Have you checked out AGRA? Seen who Mary really is?"

John Watson's mind went back to that awful night when he had learnt who had shot Sherlock Holmes. Had heard the admission from his wife's own mouth. Had received the memory stick with all the knowledge of the world upon it. Had watched Sherlock Holmes collapse and almost die that night. Almost die again.

"No. I can't look. Seems like an abuse of trust to even think of reading it. And I'm scared as well, Sherlock. Scared of what I will learn. What I might find out and then never be able to forget. I'm sorry."

There. He had finally admitted it. Admitted it to the only person he could, and who would understand. Sherlock Holmes shook his head then in something that might have been sorrow.

"Don't be sorry. It shows how much you love her. That you are willing to trust her blind, Even though you won't admit it. It is….." he hesitated. "Touching."

Not a word he could ever associate with Sherlock Holmes, or expect to even hear him say. And there had to be an especial reason for that.

"You know," John Watson said, voice slow and hard with sudden total certainty. A fearful recognition and resignation both. "You have seen it. You have read it. How dare you? How the…..?"

"Oh, come on, John!" the old bantering tone was back then. Devilish and defensive too.

"If you will hide something so important in such an obvious place as your sock drawer! Rolled up inside your most disreputable pair of ex-Army socks…."

"Which I'm never going to wear again, and only keep out of sentiment!"

"Well, exactly! You might just as well have handed it to me…."

"So you broke into my flat? Our flat? Searched everywhere to find the memory stick? Then read everything on it? Christ, Sherlock! Have you no shame?"

Fists had been formed. That pugnacious set of the shoulders was back. Sherlock Holmes tensed, prepared to duck, but kept talking.

"No. I had to know. A necessary knowledge beyond this misplaced offended twaddle you are currently playacting. Nothing less - nor more - than I expected, if that makes you feel better. But you really should know too."

"No! That was Mary then! Not Mary now!"

"Listen to yourself, John. Every word you say tells me how much you love her. So why don't you tell her and do something about it - and stop telling me?"

"I…can't. I feel torn…."

Tears were not far away. This dilemma and indecision had been tormenting him - them - for months. He dropped his head, angry at his weakness, and at displaying it. This was not the way for a soldier to behave, dithering and emotional like this.

He put his fists up to hide his face, then angrily shrugged away the hand that so unexpectedly reached for his shoulder.

"Leave me alone, Sherlock! I don't bloody need this! Alright?"

"No. It's not alright. Time you faced it and dealt with it. Truly, John."

He risked a glance. But his erstwhile friend was standing too close. And that wasn't right. That wasn't Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes did not smell of lager and cheap deodorant. Even if the alien being he was disguised as clearly did. And some deep fear in his heart wondered why his friend was wearing such a humiliating disguise that removed his natural elegance and dignity so completely.

"John, please, Sort this out. Even if you wait until you are in neutral territory, at the parent's house."

"Why? Why is it so urgent now?"

"Because it's all about you and Mary. Because if the only thing that brings you back together is the baby when it is born, you will both soon resent the child and each other. And that won't work

"Take hold of your life, John. Don't coast along into apathy. I need you both sorted. I shall need your help on Christmas Day. To defeat Magnussen once and for all. Get Mary off the hook.. And I need you with a quiet and settled mind to do that. And for that you need to be happy again."

John Watson's heart went cold and very still, and he pulled himself erect to look Sherlock Holmes in the face.

"So. Finally. Finally we get to the real story. Tell me, then."

His friend blinked hard, twice, and lifted his head.

"When you married I made a vow to the three of you. Remember it? To always be there. To look after you. That is what I am trying to do."

"Tell me."

"On Christmas Day I am going to see Magnussen. At Appledore, his home. Where his vaults are, where he keeps all the paperwork, all the photographs and material that give him his hold over Mary, and over you. I have a Christmas present for him, and the allure of that will get us inside Once there, I will get Mary's guilty history and then I shall finish this once and for all."

"Good of you, and all that. But why do you need me?"

"A witness. Protection. Someone at my back. Even with my gift as a bargaining tool Magnussen will not take kindly to me raiding his secrets. Might need you to hold a gun on him for me while I sort paperwork….even I can't have eyes and hands in two places at once."

"Yeah, I'll give you that."

"So will you do it? Help me? To help Mary?"

"Do you even need to ask?"

Anger was rising again. But from resentment this time. From a feeling of being left out. From emotional isolation from his best friend.

Sherlock Holmes saw this and kept his voice low and persuasive.

"Yes, I do. Because you must do this with your eyes wide open. I need you at my back, so I need you to bring your gun. Can you do that for me?"

"Sherlock….."

"No. Please do not get emotional….."

"Why not? Is that bad? Is being honest about feelings bad? When it has taken me so long to even consider being as honest as you are being now? Even with my best friend?"

"John Watson, that is who you are. Heart and honesty." The smile was so soft and gentle and accepting it almost broke John Watson's heart. "So don't even ask."

"Sherlock. This isn't you, behaving like this. This isn't even like you. What's going on?"

"We must beat Magnussen, John. For you and Mary. But for other people too. If I told you everyone's stories….the people this man has damaged and destroyed….we would be here until new year."

"What haven't you told me yet? There's something else. I can feel it. It's coming off you in waves. Tell me, Sherlock."

The sadness and anger, the mental exhaustion coming off his friend was starting to frighten him now. This was not Sherlock Holmes; not the man he was, nor the persona he wore.

This was different. This was wrong. And the words he was hearing did not help.

"This is the end of the game, John. Christmas Day. Joy to the world. Win or lose. I can't fight him any longer. So this may well be the death of me. Metaphorically speaking, of course. And if it is the end….I can't leave you alone in your grief. Not this time. Not knowing how you suffered when I died before.

"So swallow your pride. Get back on track with Mary. Be a family, live your life heartfelt. Whatever happens on Christmas Day. Promise me. Please."

Something was behind this he was not telling, John Watson realised. Something pushing a man proud of his lack of emotion - or his ability to control his emotion - to unusual levels of emotional eloquence.

There was a moment of the most heightened, exquisite silence. Of electricity. Eyes met - storm grey to speedwell blue. John Watson thought for one horrified moment he was going to cry.

"Keep talking."

He had never seen Sherlock Holmes look so wracked. He could not find words himself now, but raised a hand and pushed it forwards to touch and connect, towards the face of the younger, taller man. Who put up an arm of his own and deflected that touch. Left the arm in mid air as if he simply did not know where to place it. What to do next, or even how to do it.

"Must make sure you are happy, not fail you," he continued. Arm still raised to fend reaction away "I jumped off a roof to save you. Died for two years to take down a criminal organisation to protect you. Came back to see you before I knew about a bomb and about your grief.

"Could not save you from yourself. Back too late for that; and who would ever say such ordinary happiness as a wife and child are not perfect for you, anyway? I am happy for you. I have only ever tried to keep you safe.

"This may be my very last chance to make you, and Mary, and your baby, all safe. So I have to go for broke. Do you see?"

One piercing look, then he turned his head away from John Watson, emptying his face and his eyes in the automatic rejection of all emotion, all feeling, all honesty, in the way John Watson had seen him do so many times before.

This reflexive behaviour Sherlock Holmes so often displayed had never affected his friend so much before. Usually, it annoyed and irritated and exasperated him. Now - it moved him beyond words.

"You are the best friend…." John Watson began. Voice broke with heart and understanding. Finally, he thought. At the end of a road years too long being travelled.

"Told you before. Don't have friends….." came the conditioned robotic answer.

"Yeah. But just have the one, Sherlock. If just this one will do?"

He did not wait for the reply he knew would never come, but simply reached out and gathered the unyielding blond alien man into his arms. Words were weapons to Sherlock Holmes but at just this minute there were no words that would do. Not any more.

There, as they stood in the darkened sterile office, not speaking, not even moving, and holding back so much that still remained unspoken, John Watson decided that if this was not what loving another human being meant, he did not know how to define it; this uprush of affection, this need to share laughter and tears and touch. To protect and defend, to share and cherish.

All for this complex, annoying, confounding and unyielding man who had saved his life so many times before, and was set on course to save it again.

 _Let me go, John. I need to move. I can't breath. I can't do this. I can't….hold onto you. But I can't break away and hurt you, either. Not when you are hurting so much. But please let me go. Step back and give me air._

For three long seconds the consulting detective could barely contain himself, while he succumbed to the comfort John Watson gave himself by reaching out and holding on.

Then Sherlock Holmes stepped back with slow deliberation, extricating himself gently from John Watson's embrace.

"Are you OK?" he asked. That soft unsettling voice again.

"Are you?"

"I will be if you sort out this impasse." More fire, more metal. More like the old Sherlock Holmes.

Yes."

"I must go. Things to do. I will see you on Christmas Eve. At the parents'."

He carefully moved back as John Watson's left hand lingered down his arm until the hand finally and reluctantly dropped away .

Turned back slightly then, paused in the doorway.

"And bring your gun."

Then he was gone.

The doctor sat down in his chair to wait until his heart began to beat normally again, and the lump disappeared from his throat.

o0o0o0o

Sherlock Holmes was away, a soft footed wraith in the night. His luggage had travelled by taxi to Baker Street without him, and he needed to make another call close to the Watson's home.

Bill Wiggins had been surprised to see him, but had seen through the disguise, had seen him dressed like that before. Never even remarked on it. Was flattered to have a Christmas invitation, and when asked if he could deal with a simple task to earn his keep for three days had been confident.

"No problem, Just need a guide to age and weight and body mass. Can do?"

Easy. Problem solved before it began.

Another brick in the wall.

o0o0o0o

Alerted to his return, Mrs Hudson had put the heating on and left a cottage pie warming in the oven.

Entering over the yard wall and through the back door, he returned home to a cosy room, a banked up fire, the smell of a meal. He was back. And now it was time to be Sherlock Holmes again.

The alien role had been assumed at the usual guest house near the harbour in Copenhagen. The one he had stayed in when first tracking down Ellie Sonderson - something that now seemed a lifetime away. A disguise assumed like automatic reflex, to protect himself from watchers that were not Mark or Marie Dixon Carr, but could have been their clones. He was not going to risk his body or his peace of mind by doing anything less.

Afterwards he had walked the streets and visited the Sondersuns, who had welcomed him like an old friend, teased him about the disguise and then entertained him for the evening. Good food, conversation, the rare chance to relax in company. The perfect transition between relatively carefree isolation and resuming the role of Sherlock Holmes with all it's demands and responsibilities.

And yet something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones. Never usually one to act on instinct alone, he found himself unsettled, on edge, anticipating nothing and everything.

He had sought the bottle of blond hair dye in his washbag, contrived himself an outfit from the old casual clothes he had used on the island.

Just in case anyone was watching his home, looking for him on the street, scanning crowds at airports and seeking his face, there would be just one more face in the crowds that looked unlike Sherlock Holmes that would return home to London. To give himself an advantage, an anonymous head start.

He had planned to spend an extra day or so in Copenhagen, but had been propelled onto the breakfast flight by a short and simple text that woke him early the next morning.

Just one text. He looked at it aghast. Read it twice then catapulted from his bed.

 **4.37am: Cash your cheque. JS.**

o0o0o0o

He was still blond and scruffy and street when the taxi delivered him to the house in Hampstead.

Flipped the intercom.

"It's me. Let me in. Let me in now."

No voice came back to him on the intercom, but the machinery hummed and the gate opened just a little, just enough for him to squeeze through. From the other side of the gate, he looked round and checked behind him. Daylight, not darkness. No black Audi. No spies or stones aimed at his head. No. This time he was sure the horror lay within, and ahead of him.

When he got to the front door it was ajar. The house was silent. He stepped over the threshold, wishing he had brought a gun. But his Browning that was so like George Bradshaw's was safe under the floorboards at 221B.

"George? " he asked softly as he walked forward on his toes. "Elizabeth? Anyone? Jack?"

George Bradshaw appeared at the top of the stairs, face impassive.

"He must have texted you. For you to know and be here and so soon."

"Yes."

Bradshaw, on the landing. leaned over the banisters to see the unexpected visitor. Gestured him to come up. And without another word Sherlock Holmes did so. Nineteen stairs. And he felt every one underfoot, feeling like a condemned man walking to the death cell.

 _Fanciful. Stupid. Whatever happens now. I had to come back. Had to re-engage_. _Going away was a mistake. The rewards of relaxation are always damage and destruction, However did I disgard that wisdom? When I know it so well? Out of distraction and my weakness? Should have known better. Fool._

Bradshaw dropped his eyes and stepped back to allow him past, and the consulting detective moved into the master bedroom. Elizabeth Smallwood was sitting on the edge of her made bed, leaning slightly forward, elegant as ever in a black tailored suit, face composed and hands entwined on her knees. Stockings, but no shoes.

She looked up at him with dead eyes and said simply:

"You look ridiculous. Can you even get a taxi looking like that?"

He sat down next to her. Silent. Waiting. George Bradshaw stood by the door. Giving nothing away, not speaking.

After a long minute she spoke.

"Never talked to me. Never gave me a chance to say….." and her voice puttered to a stop.

Sherlock Holmes rose and, following the line of her eyes, stepped across the room to the ensuite bathroom. White tiles, black marble, soft side lighting from the mirror light.

Jack Smallwood, wearing pyjamas and dressing gown and leather slippers, sitting on the floor, leaning against the glass wall of the shower cubicle, tilted slightly to the right, hands slack and upturned on the floor.

The face was calm, worry lines smoothed, eyes downcast and half closed, mouth a soft line that almost looked like a half smile. He looked younger and peaceful, as if he was Holmes knew before he checked, but checked anyway. Cold flesh, no pulse.

The mobile phone was a recognisable shape in the dressing gown pocket. He palmed it and lost it in the pouch of the hoodie.

He put a hand on an unmoving shoulder, as he had once before, and said, very low:

"Goodbye, Jack."

Stood erect again, and met George Bradshaw's eyes as he leaned into the bathroom to observe. If he had seen the theft he made no comment.

"We are waiting for the police," he said. "For the formalities."

"What did he take?"

"His own medication, I think. No unusual vials or bottles, nothing out of order. Saved his pills and overdosed. Classic. Quiet, efficient, no fuss. His way."

"Yes."

He went back into the bedroom. Lady Smallwood had not moved, and he sat back down next to her.

"What do you want me to do?"

"I paid you off. You have no role here."

"I was re-employed. So tell me."

She turned her head and looked at him. But did not ask him to explain his words. Perhaps she knew. Perhaps she had not noticed what he had said. He would not labour the point.

"Bloody typical. Bloody man. Trying to protect me. Make life simple for me. Not get in the way." She sighed. "Bloody man."

George Bradshaw shifted in front of them. Caught his eye. Gestured with his head.

"I am back, Elizabeth. Just need to get home and become myself again. Talk to me later. After all this necessary but distasteful formal process is completed. Yes?"

She nodded.

"We shall see. Thank you for coming, William."

He rose and left the room. George Bradshaw followed him along the landing and down the stairs. Led the way into the study and closed the door.

"Don't want her to hear," he said quietly.

"Clearly."

"I was under instructions from the boss," Bradshaw said, crossing to the desk and taking from the bottom left hand drawer a large blue envelope. "If anything happened to him, I was to give you this envelope. He made the instruction last night. But he did not tell me what he planned to do."

He handed the envelope over, and Sherlock Holmes took it.

"Do you know what is in here?"

"Yes."

"Does Elizabeth?"

"I am not at liberty to say, Sir. But you may construct as you will whether or not this material would have been presented to you if she did."

"Sherlock will do, George," he corrected absently. "William, at a push. But never 'sir' as far as you are concerned. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes. My apologies."

He opened the envelope as he turned away, and sat down in the judge's leather armchair by the empty hearth.

Took out a small handful of papers.

A yellowing, glossy standard 6x8 professional photograph, curling with age. The stamp on the back held a contact number and a name - Ace High Photography. On the front Jack Smallwood and Ellie Driscoll - their younger selves - entwined at a party. Laughing, happy, sharing a come-to-bed smile and a flute of champagne.

A computer printed note with neither date nor address nor names of either recipient or sender. Careful, cautious, he thought. And read the brief lines.

 _See what I found in the photo files of a recently deceased colleague. Who would have thought it? Unpublished proof never before seen that supports the correspondence I have in hand - not the fiction of your celebration dinner._

 _Ellen will be so pleased to see this, I am sure. And you may be also._

 _As we were, then._

 _I shall contact you to discuss this in the near future._

Without comment he crossed to the printer and took photocopies. Put all back into the envelope and tucked the lot into the front of the sweatshirt.

"When did this arrive?

"The day before yesterday," Bradshaw replied. "Blackmailers never let go, do they?"

"I'm afraid not George. Especially not this one."

He stood for a moment in the middle of the study lost in thought. He looked odd and incongruous and yet suddenly was himself again, somehow. He put the regret and the anger aside. No time for that now.

"Has anyone told Ellie? Has Elizabeth informed my brother?"

"No, s - sorry."

"Leave me to tell everyone who needs to know, then. If Elizabeth even thinks of it….tell her all is sorted. Yes?" He paused. "It would be best if we could keep this news of Jack's death quiet for as long as possible. Give Magnusson a chance to show his hand. "

He almost said ' _before I show mine'_ but restrained that anger within himself.

"May I say something, s-?" Bradshaw stopped himself saying 'sir' again, and again with an effort.

"Speak."

"He intended to do this anyway. He had weakened considerably while you were away. Was losing his mobility and independence. He never wanted to have to be looked after. Or to become a burden to Lady Smallwood."

"Yes, I know. But this will have precipitated things, was not the timing he would have chosen. This pushed him over the edge. So to my mind it is still murder."

Something moved in his face, and George Bradshaw saw it and stepped back from it.

"I have a lot to do. Perhaps if you could ask Lady Smallwood to call me later? If she is of a mind? When it may be convenient?"

"Of course," George Bradshaw saw him to the door, and they parted at the gate. "Thank you for coming," he said politely. And the gate closed with a clang of metal, and with finality.

o0o0o0o

Back at Baker Street there were telephone calls to make. Decisions to be made.

The first call was, inevitably, to Mycroft.

" Do not expect Lady Smallwood into the office today," he said. And explained why.

"Regrettable," he commented. "A simple suicide, I presume? No contributory factors?"

The probe was delicate but shrewd. "No note, apparently," Sherlock replied. "Bradshaw told me he was becoming rapidly more infirm. So not totally unexpected. The police had been informed and due to arrive when we spoke."

He reverted to formality and allowed the inference that he and Bradshaw had spoken on the telephone, not at the Hampstead house itself. That he had not seen Lady Smallwood or what had been her husband.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft Holmes, who never hesitated in though or action, hesitated now. "You don't intend doing anything about this yourself, do you?"

"I was dismissed and paid off. You handled the closure yourself. What do you think?" was the icy reply.

"Yes, I did. And the thought of that now worries me."

"Don't let it," he said, and ended the call.

o0o0o0o

Before he spoke to Ellie Sondersun, he spoke to Piet Bruhl.

"Is the ball in play again?" the colonel asked. The line to Aalborg was bright and clear, and he could have been in the same city, the next room.

"Not as affects you; you and Fredrik have scotched that one by your marriage; the mere sacrifice of a parent who may or may not eventually see sense is incidental. No solution there as final as death. So still hope.

"But there will still be mileage to be found in Ellie and Ari, I think. This parasite does not let go once it has sucked blood."

"Are you all right, Sherlock?"

"Of course. I am."

Piet Bruhl let the silence stretch because he did not recognise the tone of voice he heard, nor knew where to start to fill the void.

"I am sorry I did not get across to Agnaro to visit you. But I hope you will come again. And we can meet again."

"Very kind of you. Thank you. "

"Not kind. You are more interesting than merely deserving of kindness." he said. Then laughed a little. "Christina was very impressed by you. And she is very hard to impress. I rarely manage it."

The amused observation fell on deaf ears and did not lift the mood.

"Have you ever met Pedder Magnussen?" came an unexpected question.

"No. Why? Should I?"

"He is not like his brother. Which is probably all you need to know."

"Call me if you need anything."

"Always. And be prepared to care for your husband's brother, and his wife."

"As good as done. Watch your back."

o0o0o

"I can't believe it." Ellie Sonderson said for the third time. "Poor Jack. He was a good and kind man, Sherlock."

"Yes."

"And Lady Smallwood? How is she?"

"Numb. She will be fine."

"I am glad you spoke to my mother. She liked you."

"An admirable woman. You are very alike. She will be quite safe, Ellie. You did not need to present her to me. She is more than capable of looking after herself."

"I think I knew that, really. Perhaps I needed your confirmation of it." He felt her smile down the line. "And Magnussen can't threaten to blackmail Jack any more. Will he….will he come after me, now?"

"No. Because you brother in law's husband is aware. And because I will stop him. Be calm."

o0o0o

"George said to call you. My last call of a very long day."

"Thank you. How are you?"

"As well as can be expected. The formalities are dealt with. There will be a memorial service at St Bride's. I hope you will come."

"Of course." he paused. It was time to be delicate. " May I do anything for you?"

"Like what?"

He did not reply. Allowed her to fill the silence with whatever thoughts she was having.

"I paid you off. Nothing for you to do. Magnussen cannot threaten blackmail to a dead man. Let it go."

Again,he did not reply. Was certain she had no awareness of the material Jack Smallwood had received that had pushed him over the edge. That she knew nothing of the cheque her husband had handed him all those weeks before.

"Don't sulk, William. You did everything you could, and more. You kept Jack safe while he was alive. And he chose for himself….not to be….alive. Any longer."

"Tell me if there is anything I can do for you. Anything at all."

"Thank you, dear child. But George is stalwart and here by my side….I will talk to you again soon. Happy Christmas, Sherlock Holmes."

He put the telephone down, angry at the words he wanted to say but had been unable to. Angry at the words he should have said but couldn't.

The more he thought, the angrier he became. So much loss, and pain, and so much care and love perverted.

 _Never talked to me. Never gave me a chance to say…_ Elizabeth Smallwood's words rang in his ears and echoed in his head. Again and again. Yes. She was right.

He had to see John Watson. Get that problem sorted and solved. Be able to talk and resolve important matters without the impediment of Mary Watson in their hearts and minds As a physical presence.

Conversation Sherlock Holmes did not want to have, but had to had lain on the old leather sofa for hours at Baker Street with his head resting on his hands. Planning. Subverting. Controlling. Realising it was up to him to deal with this thing because there was simply no-one else who saw all the pieces in the puzzle, or knew all the problems.

It started and ended with Jack Smallwood, who had given him strength and a renewed sense of purpose, both in life and in death.

As well as a cheque that would never be cashed. A pat on the hand that would never be returned. Trust that could never be rewarded. An envelope that could never be sealed. An expectation that could never be truly met.

He had left hospital with a plan. Had shaped that plan while at Agnaro. Had felt short of courage and determination and power. Had felt he could not do this thing. And yet here he was, back home, and doing it.

Doing this thing. Because he must. Solve this immense problem. Because no-one else would. Do whatever he needed to achieve to finally make things right. And all the while yearning desperately for peace, for quiet, for oblivion.

Finally, committed and resolved, he ran from the house, determined to catch John Watson while still at work. For a neutral setting and privacy.

When he returned - drained, depressed, desperate - after a truly unexpected and awful day, in which not a single person had said: 'welcome home, Sherlock Holmes' he showered the shame from his skin, the anger from his heart, the yellowness from both his hair and his soul.

It was time to be Sherlock Holmes again.

Tomorrow was another day. And would have Kitty Haig and Charles Augustus Maagnussen as part of it. With season's greetings from Sherlock Holmes.

TO BE CONTINUED…..

 **Author's Notes:**

George Bradshaw also appears in the O'Donnell short story _The Browning Version._ Also on FanFic.

St Bride's Church on Fleet Street is the journalist's church. A church has stood on this site for almost two thousand years. The current structure was designed by Sir Christopher Wren


	34. Chapter 34

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 34: Nothing New…'

Mrs Hudson had brought him a tray of tea and toast and stood in the doorway of the bedroom watching him dress. Just like at Agnaro, putting on every item of clothing felt like donning armour, and he was oddly comforted that she stood there, chattering about how good it was to see him back, and how Mrs Turner next door and Mrs Turner's tenants had been asking about him, and how everyone at Speedy's were always asking after him, and how much he had been missed.

When he looked like himself again he presented a sweet smile and a little twirl for her after she had brushed off the elegant Joe Casely-Hayford suit that had not been taken from the wardrobe or worn for almost six months. Then she stepped back and admired the creation that was their handiwork. Sherlock Holmes.

"You'll do," she said. "Time to have you back," Then lifted the emptied tray and went back to her lair downstairs.

And the consulting detective sat at the table in the sitting room and opened Jack Smallwood's mobile phone.

The last message in the outbox was the one to him.

 **4.37am: Cash your cheque. JS.**

It could not have been simpler, plainer, or more poignant. He sat and looked at it for a long time, unable to move, registering distress somewhere deep inside him before he deleted it.

That text was between him and Jack alone. Warning, instruction, promise and farewell.

The next was to someone logged merely as 'M' but the number was none of Mycroft Holmes' contact numbers.

 **4.25am: Done. Ensure not you next. Keep eyes on E but wait until officially informed. TTFN JS**

So someone else knew what was happening apart from him. Someone trusted and who knew both the situation and Lady Smallwood. There could only be one person who met that criteria.

He pressed the call button.

After five rings a careful female voice speaking without inflexion said:

"Yes?"

"Sherlock Holmes. On Jack Smallwood's phone."

"What the hell are you doing with it?"

"It held out it's little arms to me and called; 'Daddy.' How do you think I got it? Took it from his dressing gown pocket. To make sure there was no contact trail on it. Want me to make you disappear off it too?"

"He did it, then? Poor man." she though for a moment. "Does this mean you are back in London?"

"Yes. Tell me why Jack Smallwood sent one of his last text messages to you?"

Maggie Driscoll sucked in a breath.

"Three weeks ago I warned him that a retired society photographer called Tom Hallett had just died. He was on the scene at the time Jack and Ellie had their little….connection. Wondered if there might be something there.

"When I put out some feelers I discovered Tom's kids had already sold his guard book and files to a big media group for good money. Didn't take much brain to figure out which one. Nothing to actively worry about, but I kept that info on the back burner

"Four days ago a mutual acquaintance of ours made first direct contact with Magenta Rose to request the services of a male escort for an all male event tomorrow at the _Dirigo_ gentleman's club in Piccadilly. The first time he has presented as a client. May be coincidental, but I suspect he is on a fishing trip."

"Touching base with Magenta Rose? Lining you up in the sights?"

"Quite possible. Logical, certainly. He has tried my daughter, son in law, my son in law's brother and his husband. I would be next in line and a good catch. With all my contacts: with our acquaintance assuming all the secrets and connections I must know. Yes, he would see me as a catch."

"Yes, indeed he would. Circling in at you from the edges. Like any good predator."

"But he does not know my position at the place over the river. That any time he tried to target me my associates would act and a D notice be slapped on his publications."

"He would take that risk even if he knew. And his machinations do not always include publication. Far from it. The secret manipulation is what he enjoys."

"I'm bomb proof."

"You would not be the first person to think that." There was a silence on the line, and he asked a question that seemed so simple.

"Have you allocated anyone for tomorrow night?"

"Stop it."

"Have you?"

"We operate a policy of anonymity. Our friend has been told his escort tomorrow will be Ingram Frizer."

There was a single bark of laughter down the telephone, and she smiled despite herself.

"You are a wicked and devious woman, Maggie Driscoll. Does he have any idea who Ingram Frizer was?"

"Not a clue. Or his reaction would have been the same as yours."

"In that case I shall become his young Mr Frizer. Poetic justice, don't you think?"

"And you call ME wicked and devious?" She laughed, then immediately sobered.

"Have you thought about this, Sherlock? Are you sure you want to put yourself at such risk?"

"Need to speak to him anyway, to arrange something. This way will give him more confidence, eagerness even, in his….expectations of me. Two birds with one stone, Maggie. Email me the details and don't argue. Don't tell anyone, either. And Maggie…..?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"If Elizabeth asks you for help, let me know. I promised Jack I would cover her back."

"Did he know what he was asking you?"

"Of course he did. That's why he asked."

o0o0o0o

"Oh! You're back! Welcome home!"

She opened the front door. Saw who was on the doorstep and without hesitation stepped forward and wrapped him in a hug. He reflected that the last time she had opened her front door to him things had been very different.

The same though must have gone through her mind, for she spoke into his neck:

"This is so much better than scraping you off the doorstep!" and ushered him inside.

"I didn't expect to see you. Thought you were still away. Stand still and let me look at you. " She held him at arm's length and just stood and looked. Then beamed at him.

"You look well. I am so pleased. Come in, come in,"

Kitty Haig ushered him into the kitchen and into his usual chair by the Aga.

He was disconcerted by such a warm and honest welcome.

"A glass of wine? To celebrate?"

"Coffee is fine."

She bustled around the kitchen and kept shooting him little looks, tiny smiles.

"You OK?" he heard himself ask.

"Fine," she answered. "More than fine. And it's all your fault."

"Yes."

"Oh, Sherlock! I said that as a joke."

She almost ran the two steps to his side to drop to her knees and gather him into a hug.

And he wrenched his head up and above her reach, as if trying to find air when drowning.

"I've turned a corner, Sherlock," she said, arms round his unresponsive body. "I know I will never get Nick back, but I have a new job; Only been doing it three days, but I love it already. Great paper, great job, great people. No Magnussen. The difference that makes!"

He smiled down at her, just a little smile.

"I am pleased for you," he said.

He wanted to tell her about File 3113. Wanted to tell her about everything Nick Haig had given him, given Mycroft, given Lestrade. But until things were certain….all that surfeit of information could do to her in upset and revived memories, would so easily send her back into the depths, with renewed pain and regret and uncertainty.

And as for his suspicions about the black Audi; well, that was all they were and probably ever would be. Just suspicions. And that would do nothing more than create turmoil and even deeper regret within her. And what was the point of that?

"Pick yourself up and move on, Kitty. It is the best tribute you can pay Nick. Not let his death warp you, or destroy you. But let it give you new strength and understanding. As a journalist and as a human being. He would like that."

She looked up at him with tear brimmed eyes filled with wonder

"You understand."

He brushed that aside.

"Nick would not want you to wake every day carrying his suffering. Turn the page. Never…."

He was interrupted by a sharp series of raps on the front door.

"Are you expecting anyone?" he rapped out, suddenly alert, concentrated.

"I don't get visitors," she replied.

And, over cautious suddenly, he put a hand on her arm. "I'll come with you. We answer the door together."

The distance up the hall was a long walk; and he rammed his hands down into the pockets of the Belstaff.

But when she opened the front door, it was Sherlock Holmes who recoiled.

For standing on the front door step was a slim, handsome middle aged man holding a clear envelope with a magazine in it. A man with piercing blue eyes, broad cheekbones, and hair pulled back from his face into a silver pony tail.

His eyes passed over Sherlock Holmes, and the small secret smile in them was not wasted on the consulting detective.

"Mrs Haig?" he asked with a precision of politeness that was just one step from insult. "My name is Erik Carlsson. I am Hr Magnussen's personal assistant." He paused. Looked at Sherlock Holmes standing behind Kitty, and smiled with a slow, lazy awareness.

"He sent me to deliver this: the latest copy of the _Daily Briefing_ magazine with your final feature in it. He thought you might like it."

He held out the envelope and she reached forward automatically and took it.

"Why thank you," she said. "So very kind."

"Yes. We thought so." The English was heavily accented, the tone just this side of condescending, like a man with a secret knowledge he was not about to impart.

A stiff formal little bow.

"So good to see you, also, Mr Holmes. To see you again."

He pulled his lips back over his teeth in a humourless smile.

Chilled into blankness, Sherlock merely nodded. He realised he knew only too well the circumstances of their last meeting.

"How is Redbeard, Mr Holmes?"

Kitty looked merely puzzled, not registering Sherlock's jolt of reaction.

Looking away from the man with the ponytail, looking up and away he noticed something else that rocked him. The car standing in front of the gate. A black Audi.

 _The world was full of black Audis. It was just coincidence. Calm down….. But then again….the universe is rarely so lazy…_

"I am sure your car found it's way here on automatic pilot," he heard himself say with a sangfroid he did not feel. "This street is barely new to you."

"But of course, Mr Holmes. Or may I call you Sherlock? As we are such good…." the insolent, duplicitous pause. "….friends. Such intimate friends."

He was aware of Kitty looking between the two of them, something off kilter between the two men capturing her awareness. But she was clearly not a car person; did not recognise the outline of the car in the half dark.

"Such intimate friends should share confidences," Sherlock replied, equally smooth, equally ambiguous.

 _Two can play at this game. And the stakes I am playing for are so much higher…._

."Was it you, then?"

Carlsson knew what he meant instantly and reacted without pretence. Tilted his head. Nodded and smiled.

"As if you would expect me to tell you. As if I should need to. Silly _barn._ Stupid _beng_ " Silly child. Stupid boy.

He paused. Offered a very polite social smile that meant nothing at all.

"Thank you Mrs Haig. Good evening, Mr Holmes. I shall see you very soon."

And that, too had meaning. For him alone. Of Appledore and domination and veiled threat.

And then Carlsson was gone. Sherlock Holmes reached in front of Kitty Haig, caught the door knob and slammed the door closed, Shot home the bolts. Stayed crouched down close to the floor by the bottom bolt for a moment too long as he gathered his wits and his courage. Calmed the hammering of his heart and cooled the sudden sweat on his brow.

"Sherlock. What's wrong? I don't understand? What is it? Tell me?"

"It's nothing. I just have some moments of weakness still….nothing to worry about."

 _Well, there's honesty for you! Dammit to hell…._

He stood erect and patted her arm. Went back into the kitchen and drank her coffee. Soothed her world, impelled her forward into a new life But afterwards could not remember a single word he had said.

The important thing was that he left her positive and upbeat, And new minted.

He walked home and took the long way. Took his time. Found calmness, finally.

o0o0o0o

On the way he called in at Bart's. Just in case.

Molly was in her office. Attending to paperwork alone, sitting in the pooled glow of a single desk lamp.

She looked up when he entered and turned towards him. There was a second of sheer delight on her face before she looked at him with quiet, professional assessment.

"I had hoped you would come," she said simply. "You look better. Are you better?"

"Better than I was," he agreed, stepping into her light. She put her hand out and took his, and he let her. Found himself putting his other gloved hand over hers and squeezing it. Saying simply, in a tiny telling action, what he could not give her in words. And she understood that.

She turned on her chair and gave him a brief awkward hug.

"Too much paperwork. Too many deaths, always too many at this time of year. So much for a happy Christmas for so many families," she mused. "That's why I hate Christmas, prefer to work through it."

"A happy Christmas is merely a construct of sentiment and tradition. You know that."

"Stop it!" she said with good nature, punching him lightly on the thigh. And this time he smiled properly.

"Thank you, Molly."

"What for?"

"Oh. You know. Being you."

She grinned at him then as if he had just given her the world on a plate.

"Shut up," she said, but was clearly pleased.

"Thank you for talking to me. Talking to John. It helped."

"I didn't talk to John. Not really. He came here while you were away. He was upset. I tried to soothe him. But I didn't tell him anything, Sherlock. Not about…you know…what happened to you."

Tension huffed out of him. She had told him without him even having to ask. About a thing that had been worrying him. He nodded.

"Do you still have that telephone number I gave you?"

"Why?" her voice was suddenly lower and slower; suspicious.

"Just so I know. If you should need it."

"I thought the problems were over? I thought you were better? Were over what happened to you?"

He smiled at her and watched her hands form into little fists.

"Such things are never over. I'm just checking."

"You want me to tell you I have your back? When you should always know that? Always," she repeated softly.

He found himself taking a step forward, drawing her head to him and planting a kiss on her crown. Her hair smelt of strawberry shampoo. And how typical was that?

 _I must stop doing this. Listening to sentiment, doing the kind thing. It is weakening….._

"You are a comfort to me," he said formally.

"Stop it."

She screwed round in her chair to try and look up into his eyes. But he was too close and too tall.

"What do you want me to do, Sherlock?"

"Just be there. As always. I always trust you, Molly"

"Something is happening? Going to happen? Tell me."

"Can't tell you. Don't know. At best, I will send you a bunch of red roses. At worst; well, I will just come back here to you."

She was smiling, reassured, relaxing. Until he finished the sentence.

"And if so I want you to do the post mortem, Molly. Hide nothing. Draw the right conclusions between what you see and what you know. Tell it plain. Do that for me, regardless."

The girl that loved him stepped back, and the professional that respected him took control.

"You don't even have to ask," she said, with the calm detachment he needed from her now. But the friend pushed forward again. "But what do you want?"

He blinked hard, but his expression did not change. He patted her on the hand, turned and walked away from her, as was his habit.

She thought she heard him say: "Oblivion" as he opened the door and walked through it. But she could not be sure.

o0o0o0o

He had not worn the formal dress suit since he had been at the Guildhall with Magnussen and the Smallwoods. Since he had struck Mycroft to the ground, since Magnussen had attacked him in an alley and he had run away like a stricken child to be sick in a drain.

He put the memories aside and dressed with a cold and formal control. Tonight was something else now. The ground had shifted and moved under his feet.

 _Into battle. Prepare to lose the battle to win the war. Make Magnussen believe he has me in thrall._

The net was slowly yet inexorably drawing in on Charles Augustus Magnussen, even though he did not know it yet.

Lady Smallwood had select committee questioning in hand - and new subjects to target. Maggie Driscoll was ready to prompt both MI5 and MI6 into pushing at Magnussen's power base; Mycroft was only too ready and eager to intercede.

Nick Haig had played his part, and Pedder Magnussen had no reservations about how he would assist in revealing anything hidden in Denmark.

Lestrade had been given the recording he had made on his phone of the ambiguous doorstep conversation with Erik Carlsson, and had promised he would give Sherlock time and space, and not re-open that investigation until after Christmas.

Would not go to Appledore until Sherlock had been there. Would not start the forensic investigation of that black Audi of Magnussen's. Would not start questioning Carlsson and reopen the investigation into the hit and run that had claimed the life of Nicholas Haig. Not yet. Not until then.

Everything was now in place. If he stepped back now, right now, life would soon never be the same for Charles Augustus Magnussen, regardless. If he gave in now, things would still happen. If he stepped aside no-one would blame him, because no-one would have even been expecting him to still be a player.

But this was personal, now. More personal than ever. And he had to remove the personal before Charles Augustus Magnussen's world exploded and took everyone else affected by him to the police and the government and straight into the public eye.

This adventure had started off personal as far as Jack and Elizabeth Smallwood were concerned. But then became even more personal when the Mary Watson connection was made. A connection he should have spotted right back on the day of the wedding. Right back from the first day he ever met Mary Morstan, and had been uneasy from that very first meeting.

He had known even then she was a liar; he just had not appreciated how comprehensive a liar. How dangerous and life changing the lies. Had made the mistake of putting his fears aside in favour of John Watson's happiness. Blaming his own disappointment, sense of loss and betrayal for the strange and untypical hurt and resistance he felt towards John Watson's new life and love.

Well, he knew better now. And would never be that soft hearted or personally influenced against his own negative instinct ever again. Never allow himself to be so human, so indecisive, so reluctant to upset apple carts. Would never again hesitate to hurt someone he loved….when it was for their own good. Not his own good, though. Not his!

If he had acted on his instincts and his suspicions back then…something may have been salvaged from the ruins. There may even have been no marriage, no baby. John Watson would have rightly blamed him for his life and his love and his future crumbling. May never have spoken to him ever again. But - so what? The sacrifice of friendship would have been worth the hardness of the solution. He knew that now, and could face it.

He had been weak when he had submitted to the urge to behave like a human being, for once. Had tried to save the friendship when it was more important to save the life. All human behaviour was weakness. He had tried to be kind. Considerate. Hopeful. And look where behaviour like that had put them all! No. Never so human. Never again.

He tied his white tie. Fitted his plain jet cufflinks. Decided on taking the cape this time; the winter weather merited it. Gave his pomaded and slicked back hair a final comb. Put his phone and his wallet in his pockets and stepped out into the night.

The _Dirigo_ was one of a new breed of modern gentleman's clubs created over the past ten years to fill the void made by oversubscription and waiting lists years long for the traditional gentleman's clubs of London.

Situated in that wilderness between Bond Street and Grosvenor Square the _Dirigo_ was not the same as most of the new breed of gentleman's clubs - a large and minimalist open space converted from an office block unit. This new club was the top floor of a huge building that had always been a mix of Edwardian offices and chop houses.

Floor Five had been abandoned for years, it's mahogany panelling and private booths deemed too expensive and old fashioned to alter for unpredictable mixed modern use. But the traditional and heavy look had come into vogue again, the secluded dining booths and the geographical position between society and trade, residential and West End, gave this new club a perfect position and a cleverly targeted new market.

Comfortable traditional setting and modern ambience, clever cuisine and special evenings all made the _Dirigo_ a place to be, and be seen. Secret business meetings and assignations were held in those booths, and the _Dirigo_ quickly acquired a reputation for tact and discretion other older clubs could envy.

And now Sherlock Holmes rode the antique brass and mahogany lift upwards and stepped into the foyer with poise, purpose and icy calm. Prepared for whatever was going to come. Prepared to do whatever was necessary. To set up Appledore. Arrange the logistics for his betrayal of Mycroft. Position his bait on the line.

Promises made, and promises to fulfil, On his own terms. Terms that only he understood. And he was ready.

He entered the foyer and announced himself to the Maitre D'. Said who he was there to meet. Was amused to see the pseudonym Ingram Frizer received phlegmatically and ticked off a list.

A central floorspace had been cleared for a boxing ring, and club members occupied the mahogany booths with trays of drinks and meals to follow later. And Sherlock followed a waiter who escorted him to a velvet curtained eight seat booth with a dining table at the centre.

"Mr Ingram Frizer for you, Mr Magnussen."

Magnussen rose to greet him, and so did four other men seated in the booth. Places were set for six, Sherlock observed; he was the last of the party to arrive.

Charles Augustus Magnussen saw who had arrived. Recognised him. Opened his mouth to argue the identity - then thought better of it. Instead offered a broad smile, a secret look of amusement in his eyes, politely held out a hand to be shaken.

Sherlock grasped the damp warm hand firmly and did not recoil from the touch.

"Good evening, Mr Magnussen," he said urbanely.

"Good evening, Mr Frizer. So good to see you again."

Laughter was bubbling under Magnussen's urbane surface, but Sherlock could tell none of the other guests knew why, or were going to call him out on the identification. Graeme Boyd, editor of the _Daily Briefing;_ Caspar Elliott, editor of _Street Life_ and Josh Wallace, editor of _Behind The Headlines._ And sitting a little apart - Erik Carlsson. With that plastic smile.

Not a party he would have expected, but it could have been worse. Almost.

Magnussen shifted to one side and patted the bench seat beside him.

"Please do come and sit next to me, Mr Frizer," he said, and introduced his employees, declaring Sherlock to be 'my close friend, man about town, Ingram Frizer.' He put a pause and an accent on 'close friend' that excluded the others, and would in ordinary circumstances have brought a blush and irritation to the detective. This time, however he swallowed the implied relationship, and smiled at it.

There was champagne and Black Velvet and nibbles. Easy civilised conversation. Sherlock did his best to keep Carlsson on the periphery of his vision and his consciousness, despite the older man's knowing smirks.

As a charity fundraiser, the five bouts of junior boxing pleased the capacity audience for the evening, and a singer covered the quick breakdown of the ring as the meal began, almost three hours after the start of the evening.

To Sherlock the conversation, the boxing and the evening were of no interest whatsoever. It was clear than none of the CAM editors recognised him as Sherlock Holmes; so as Ingram Frizer he was able to explain boxing rules and techniques and otherwise switch off his brain, yet keep talking and zone out most of the idle, social conversation that flowed around and over him.

He was also able to block out a great deal of Magnussen. A thigh pressed against his, joking mentions of his false name as a silly secret shared between them, describing a ludicrous false identity he could not challenge. A hand on his knee, or pressing little strokes into his back, murmurs of whispered conversation warm and breathy in his ear.

And he could tell from the blank politeness of the three editors when Magnussen was watching them, and their veiled curiosity when he was not, an awareness that they were intrigued and appalled by what they were seeing. As he was himself.

So it was no surprise that once the meal was over the editors were dismissed, and left comfortably, no desire to stay. Carlsson also drifted away after them, closing the doors of the booth behind him. And Sherlock Holmes and Charles Augustus Magnussen were alone in that secret, silent and suddenly claustrophobic space.

"So nice to see you again, Ingram. Or may I call you Sherlock, now? I am a little confused." Magnussen showed his teeth in a civilised smile.

"Sherlock for daytime. Ingram for evening. I am so very versatile."

"Hmn." the older man paused. "You see. I always knew it." What he knew he did not say, but filled a champagne glass, and passed it across. "Drink," he said.

"I don't drink."

"I am paying for your company. So my company drinks."

The tone of voice behind the smile implied threat, or worse.

Sherlock Holmes lifted the glass, tasted the sweet bitterness, wrinkled his nose at the bubbles..

"Do that again. Ingram. I love to see you wrinkle your nose."

 _Childish. Controlling. Villainy. But go with it. Be still. See what happens next._

Sherlock did it again, Magnussen leant across to him, invaded his personal space with slow deliberation and breathed on his cheek. Rasped teeth gently around his earlobe.

It took all his determination not to pull away in revulsion and slap the man.

"I am not here for this…" he began.

"Then what are you here for?"

 _Hold it down. Act._

" To humour my fascination with you. To make an appointment to see you. A business appointment." The baritone held a low and deliberate seductive purr. Contrary to appearance, only the brain engaged. The emotion was battened down even further than normal.

"We can easily do something about that. In the meantime…"

Magnussen insinuated a hand to roll around the inside of Sherlock's right thigh. Sherlock looked down at it with incurious detachment.

"Not here for this…." he repeated, stifled. Then smiled a little. "Not really."

 _Appear in thrall. Keep him in thrall…make the appointment…._

"You think not?" Magnussen replied, voice amused. "Really? So you do not understand why these booths are enclosed, you silly young man? Why do you think we are still here after the main attraction of the evening except for what becomes the real main attraction of the evening?"

"I am not contracted for sex. Companionship only. And you have not used the services of Magenta Rose before. Why now?"

"I have been denying myself. And now I am on an adventure," Magnussen excused himself, making no pretence of truth or sincerity. "For I am an ascetic man. Normally. But I have been thinking about you, Sherlock Holmes. I have been thinking about you a lot. And now I find you are also Ingram Frizer for Magenta Rose, and the admirable Mrs Driscoll, I am delighted.

"And now I know what else you do. What I always suspected. And so you become even more the focus of my thoughts."

"So very kind of you. Do you want another broken finger?"

"Oh, you will not do that to me again. On reflection, that was quite exciting to me. Unexpected and thrilling, even. And I deserved it, perhaps? I pushed too hard, Too eager. Perhaps too cruel. I had thought you liked cruel….from what you gave me at Appledore. More so then than in my penthouse, anyway."

"Choice makes a difference."

"Does it, indeed?" with a dry, remorseless something that might have been intended to be humour.

He beamed. He had hold of Sherlock's wrist, and was caressing it now, tracing the edges of the scars with a distracted concentration.

 _Stop thinking. Stop feeling. Stop trying to react. Do not react. Think. Do. Work the plan, whatever it takes. Achieve. Submit. Submit to control. Submit to achieve. Just do it. Do it._

"I adore your hands, Sherlock Holmes. An artist's hands. The marks you carry on them makes them special and unique. Damaged and so very vulnerable. Just like the rest of you."

"On the contrary, They show I am invulnerable. That I do not give in. And anyway - you have caressed my hands before."

"So you do remember that visit? You were very sleepy that day. Quite beautiful. But your hands are beautiful, something anyone might want to caress. The imperfection of your scars add a special beauty. A certain something. You are the complete package, whether you are being Ingram Frizer or Sherlock Holmes.

"This was where you learnt your beautiful abilities, was it? Working for the mother of Ellen Catherine Driscoll? How appropriate."

He laughed, almost genuinely amused.

"I went to public school," Sherlock Holmes drawled, apparently unmoved. "I was a pretty and self contained child without friends or support. It made me the perfect target. I have an eidetic memory. I learnt quickly."

"I too have the perfect memory. We share so much in common. So we should be friends. At the very least."

"I am actually here this evening to arrange delivery of the Christmas present I promised you."

"Ah yes. Of course. What are you suggesting?"

"My brother and I will be at a country retreat for Christmas this year. Not so far from your home. So I then could gain and deliver your gift?" And added: "And see you?"

"Is that a tryst?"

Sherlock leaned into the man crowding him into a corner of the bench seats.

"It could be."

"You promised me…"

"Yes. A two for one deal, is it? So; very much Christmas cheer."

The Dane leaned closer, put up a hand, buried his fingers deep into the dark curls. Drew Sherlock Holmes' head down to his.

"Tonight's contract is for escort services only," Sherlock warned again. "Not sex."

"How very cold blooded of you," Charles Augustus Magnussen said, a smile in his voice. His head ducked down, and his teeth nipped the artery on Sherlock Holmes' neck.

"You have such a beautiful neck. So long. So expressive. Someone should paint the line of that neck."

"You want me to pose naked for you?"

"Not at all. I prefer photographs."

He lifted his head and smiled a wicked smile. Sherlock Holmes swallowed bile and bitterness. And Magnussen saw something move in his face.

"You really don't like being touched, do you?" he observed conversationally. "We must do something about that. I will enjoy that even if you don't. And that in itself is enjoyable. Perhaps you prefer to touch? To touch me? As Ingram Frizer?"

"But I'm not….."

"For the purpose of this evening you are indeed Ingram Frizer. Contracted and paid for. But perhaps being Sherlock Holmes is better, yes? More…." he teased out the word. "More….freelance? Does that work for you, Sherlock? It works for me."

He moved closer, forced up the bowed head so their eyes met.

" I shall have you collected," he whispered softly into the ear he had just toyed with. "My helicopter. 3pm. Christmas Day. And then you shall deliver my Christmas gift. And after that….we shall have that weekend we promised ourselves. A happy new year, yes? No need to rush ourselves, or enjoy too many pleasures in one day. Anticipation has it's own pleasure."

"Wonderful," Sherlock Holmes breathed.

The mobile phone in his pocket trilled. He struggled to reach for it, held it and opened the text that had pinged in.

 **10.23pm: Leave. Now.**

There was no identity to the number, no signature. But there was only one person who knew where he was. So she was watching. A secret camera in the booth? An audio feed? For a second anger flared.

"Something interesting?" Magnussen asked mildly.

"My boss tells me you are out of time. I should go."

"Not yet," was the smooth reply. "I am the customer. The customer is always right. And the good employee always finds time for his work."

He put his other hand into Sherlock Holmes' hair, forced his head down. Not fighting the hold, being the professional escort, acquiescing to the older man, he found his face in the other man's lap. And then his head was down even further with a fierce push.

"So, What an interesting position for you to be in. Pray continue….."

"Can't breathe like this….."

"Really?" Magnussen hauled his head up a little. Smiled deep into his eyes. Shoved his head down again. "You know what to do then. Please continue."

"You really are something special." Magnussen heard the words as he wanted to hear them. As Sherlock made them sound. Not as he meant them.

Two long deep breaths. To gather air. Gather self control. Because he could feel the anger starting to burn in him again like a fire. Put his mind and his intellect and all his determination into control of his recoiling body.

He dropped to his knees into the deep pile navy blue carpet, in the space between Magnussen and the table. Looked up. Magnussen's eyes glittered down at him from behind the wire rimmed glasses. There was a slow heady smile on those lips and in those eyes.

 _My humiliation? As if! No. My power. I can and will do this._

"Life is all about control and power," whispered Magnussen, and it was almost as if he read Sherlock Holmes' mind. "Not our Mr Frizer on contract employment any more. Just my Mr Holmes. Doing what he can do and must do. To keep me sweet and in play. Such a pretty and pliable young man."

Sherlock Holmes blocked out the words Put his hands on Magnussen's long lean thighs. Worked his thumbs deep into the muscles. Moved his hands slowly back towards Magnussen's groin as if massaging. Knelt closer and taller.

Intimacy. Touch. Faking it. He clamped down on his brain and his revulsion. and the words he spoke were soft and calculated.

 _Hand and heart, not heart or humiliation. Just doing the job, Blow the bloody job. Blowjob, oh hilarious, Holmes. Just get on with it. Might as well be back at school. Fatuous. Disassociate yourself. You know how to do this._

"So easy, this, Charles. So simple. But we are in a public place, a public room. So the best we can manage in the circumstances. If you can be quiet for me. Not frighten the staff. Or the horses….."

Magnussen murmured low in his throat. And Sherlock Holmes's smile looked easy and languorous. Even though it was not.

"Of course, in the privacy of Appledore….where I want us to be alone….without the help and attention of Carlsson…then we shall be…..much more comfortable."

He words were a mesmerising hum in that rich warm baritone. Always reminding of working his way into Appledore. Always driving towards it. He knelt up and forward, his hands working slowly, teasingly, towards Magnussen's waistband. His glass grey eyes intent on Magnussen's own. Holding the gaze. Holding the focus.

He had one hand on the zipper, fingers moving behind the waistband of the trousers. Magnussen's legs were apart and he was kneeling between them when the door of the booth slammed open without warning.

Magnussen sat erect as if shot, but Sherlock Holmes did not move.

"Good evening, Ingram." A tall slim man in evening dress, with wild dark hair and green eyes, was standing there. Resonant public school accent, face open and without judgement "Your contracted session is ended. I am here to take over."

There was a beat in time.

"Nick Skeres, I assume?" Sherlock asked with a smile in his voice.

"But of course. Who else would you expect?" The man who looked like Sherlock Holmes but was not, quirked a grin and looked down at him. "Bit of a bugger when you lose your cufflink on the floor in the half dark, isn't it? Want me to help you up from down there?"

A square sinewy hand helped him to rise despite himself.

"Now then, Mr Magnussen….." the newcomer sat down in the place where Sherlock had been, and assumed a talkative, yet strictly professional, persona. Magnussen seemed to have been rendered speechless. Taking a glass of Black Velvet for himself, and pushing his half glass of champagne back towards Magnussen, the man who was not Sherlock Holmes spoke easily and conversationally.. "…do tell me about your interest in boxing?"

The consulting detective stepped back.

Magnussen was still regarding him with heavy lidded, strongly concentrated eyes.

"Christmas Day will soon be here," he finally managed, made the words sound easy and conversational. Despite the look in his eyes. "Happy Christmas, Mr Frizer."

"And happy Christmas to you, too, Mr Magnussen," he replied with a calm sincerity he did not feel. "See you very soon."

He stepped back out of the booth, into the centre of the room surrounded by similar closed booths. What was happening behind those doors and curtains? Business meetings? Sexual couplings? Quiet conversations? Sharing of secrets? Delicate diplomatic exchanges? He neither knew nor cared. He relaxed his shoulders and ran his fingers through his hair.

The Maitre D' held the door open for him, and he travelled five floors down to the ground alone, reflecting that this lift travelled five floors far more slowly than Magnussen's glass lift travelled thirty two. There was something ironic in that, if he could only think what it was.

In the chilly drizzle outside on the street opposite the _Dirigo_ a silver Rolls Royce Ghost stood by the kerb, engine idling.

He had almost expected it, but ignored it. Turned right and began walking. He knew the armoured saloon was cruising silently behind him at walking pace. But he still ignored it.

"You needed to be extricated," said a female voice through the wound down rear window. He did not turn to look.

"No. I knew exactly what I was doing." Fifteen paces. The car kept station alongside and his eyes briefly met those of George Bradshaw. "What are you doing with Elizabeth's car? And driver?"

"Elizabeth is staying with me for a few days. George is part of the parcel. I am honoured."

Maggie Driscoll did not demand he stop walking and talk to her. So he didn't.

"Spying on me," he added bitterly.

"Spying on Magnussen," she corrected. "Under closer surveillance now. You were told that before you even left London to recover. You were watched simply because you were in his orbit tonight."

He nodded. Yes, he had been warned of that. Had warned the Watsons in his turn. But had not really believed it then.

"You could have warned me. "

"No, I couldn't. I couldn't trust you, Sherlock. To behave naturally in the face of that knowledge? To not push the envelope?. Give everything away? Or goad action that would not have stood up in committee or in court."

"Couldn't trust me," he echoed bitterly.

"You are a free agent. In all senses of the word. Do not always take orders even when given them. Act wildly sometimes. As I said - can't be trusted. Not always."

He turned emptied eyes to her, very briefly, as he walked.

"Good night, Maggie. Hope not to see you again between times. All best wishes for a happy Christmas."

"Yes, thank you. And you too; but what was that whispered conversation you were having with Magnussen?"

As she spoke he turned into an alley where the Ghost could not follow. Ignored her. Did not listen or turn.

o0o0o0o

He found himself at a different front door. Knocked. Stepped back. Waited. Knocked again. Louder. Waited again.

A shape in dressing gown and pyjamas could be seen through the frosted glass. moving forward towards the door.

Sherlock Holmes braced himself as the door opened with caution.

"What time do you call this?" was the exasperated greeting.

"Still not quite midnight, John…" he began, almost apologetically.

"And some of us have to be at work tomorrow," was the brisk reply. "What do you want?"

"I want…."

 _Peace. Quiet. Trust. Sleep. Dignity. Self respect…oblivion_

""…to just make sure you haven't forgotten."

"Forgotten what?"

"That you are coming to the parents' for Christmas?"

"How could I forget that? We are both looking forward to it. Quite excited, actually."

"Oh. Oh? Good." He grinned then. Couldn't help it.

"You knew we wouldn't forget. So what's going on? Why are you here?"

"Just wanted to remind you. We have something to do on Christmas Day."

"I haven't forgotten that, either. And I haven't told Mary about it before you ask. What's gotten into you? And why are you dressed like that? "

"I have been working. What's gotten into me? Just checking, I suppose. Humour me. Just a bit."

John Watson stepped forward into the porch, drew the front door softly closed behind him.

"Mary is asleep. Don't want to wake her…." he excused himself, stepping closer, still speaking quietly.

"Sleeping with you?" Sherlock Holmes asked sharply.

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock! My - our - sleeping arrangements aren't your affair. Why do we keep having this conversation?"

"Because you keep avoiding it. And until you stop doing that your sleeping arrangements are my affair." he paused, nodded briskly. "Have you even looked at AGRA? Sorted that?"

John Watson moved from foot to foot and was silent.

"John!"

"I can't face it. Keep putting it off. Sorry."

"Cutting it fine. Need everything sorted on Christmas Day," he ordered. Relaxed just a little. "It will be easier for you at the parents' house. Neutral space. Christmas cheer, supportive companionship and all that. But you MUST have this done by lunchtime. 2pm at the very latest, John."

" I know. Sorry. Will do. Got to, I know. Only a few more days. " John Watson nodded with decision, "But what's the rush?"

"No rush. You have procrastinated for months."

"Yeah. But why now?"

"Just because."

"Sherlock. You are supposed to be talking to me. We discussed this. At Agnaro. And before. So talk to me."

"I have told you. You need your future sorted."

"It will be. Eventually."

"Christmas Day." He put his hands up to emphasise, and almost grabbed the dressing gown lapels. Dropped his hands with an effort. "We must go into this thing with Magnussen with quiet minds. Or it's not going to work."

"Why not? I don't get it."

"John, please. Please just trust me."

"Why should I? When I don't understand?"

He sighed, turned away, putting his face into darkness.

"I will spell it out so even someone as stupid as you can understand. I need to know Mary is worth the sacrifice. Sticking my neck out for her, John. And you. Like I always will. I promised you John. I made that vow.

"I owe you too much to ever repay you. But if you and Mary are not together…how is she worth me doing this thing? To save Mary, and sacrifice me, she must be worth it. To you. Don't you see? She is only worth this from me if she is worth it to you.

"So tell me, John. How you love each other. Because if not I don't understand how you can stand back and let me… " he broke off, shaking his head. "I am sorry, I should not have come here tonight."

" What are you going on about now?" John Watson asked. "Are you drunk or something? Talking of sacrifice? I don't understand. Is this more Sherlock Holmes posturing?"

" Yes!" he barked an empty laugh, flung his arms in the air. "That's me. Another pose, another disguise. Simple game."

"This is just another black mood?"

"Of course. Just a mood, John. Nothing to worry about."

"Why try to scare me, then?"

"Because I do that! It's Christmas, John!"

He could hear his voice at a strange pitch. Had John Watson noticed what he could not contain?

For a moment John Watson looked up at him from under his brows, concentrating. Then he grinned. Opened his arms and put them briefly and impulsively round Sherlock Holmes' thin shoulders that refused to shake.

"Stop over thinking, Sherlock. It's Christmas. So happy Christmas. You total nutter."

The insult was said with such affection the consulting detective felt tears prick the back of his eyes. From the extremes of Magnussen to Watson in one evening. What a joke!

If for just this, this one spark of affection, this one touch of truth…well, that was worth any sacrifice, wasn't it? Just the once? Just for once?

For the briefest second he let his head drop onto the sturdy shoulder so close to him. Not good; that made his breath snag. Christ, how he hated having been granted the double sword of friendship; would give anything not to have been touched and tainted by it. Life was so much easier without…

"Happy Christmas, John. Give my love to Mary. See you both soon."

It was an effort to turn and walk away, to not cling, to not look back.

 _God rest you merry, gentlemen…let nothing you dismay…..to save poor souls from Satan's power when we have gone astray….._

He had had that blasted tune running through his head all day.

 _Who wrote this sentimental Christmas crap anyway?_

And walked off into the darkness.

TO BE CONTINUED…..

 **Author's Notes:**

Joe Caseley-Hayford OBE is one of the UK's top fashion designers and now also works uniquely with his son Charlie with their own high fashion brand. The Black Power List names him as one of the most influential members of the most influential black family in the UK. Among other roles he is Creative Director of tailors Geives and Hawkes

TTFN: Abbreviation for an old fashioned term of farewell - Ta-Ta For Now. Ta-ta - pronounced ta-tar - with the stress on the second syllable - is a slang term for goodbye.

Guard book: a reference file of all written or published material of a career kept by a writer or photographer.

Dirigo: Latin for 'I direct' or 'I manage.'

'The place over the river:' MI5 or MI6 stand opposite each other across the Thames in London.

D Notice: An official government request/instruction to newspapers and editors to stop them publishing specific material for the good and security of the nation.

Ingram Frizier was the man who knifed Elizabethan poet and playwright Christopher Marlowe to death in a pub in Deptford. The truth of this story, and Marlowe's fate, have been long disputed. Marlowe was himself known to be a murderer, a homosexual and a government spy. He may also have been William Shakespeare. Nick Skeres was the companion of Ingram Frizer on that night.

Black Velvet: Champagne and Guinness, a form of Irish dark stout beer.

God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen (aka Tidings Of Comfort And Joy) is a traditional English Christmas carol. It is one of the oldest recorded carols, dating back to at least the C16th, and is mentioned in Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol by Ebenezer Scrooge. Often mispunctuated, the word 'merry' in this ancient context mean pleasant, or bounteous.


	35. Chapter 35

THings We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 35: 'Hear the words you used….'

We now re-enter the worlds of the television episode and Appledore as the story works towards it's end. As well as lost and extended scenes, the framework and detail of this section of the story is based mainly on the final shooting script, as written by Steven Moffat, as opposed to any TV transcript, and is script compliant. The original can be found by googling 'emmys' and 'His Last Vow final shooting script.'

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Sitting in a corner of the kitchen, he reflected that possibly the only good thing about Christmas was mince pies. He had been given three on a plate. A cushion. Yesterday's newspaper. Told to sit quietly and rest.

He was better at sitting quietly than resting, but a rest before action was good - as was something nutritious - so he calmly acquiesced. Scowling but smiling inside at the offhand, defensive sort of inexpert care he had somehow engendered from his family. Perhaps it was a seasonal foible? He did not intend making the rhetorical question a serious study.

Mycroft, long settled at the stripped pine kitchen table where he had been immersed in his laptop, had flung him a quick suspicious look then, not trusting such unusual complicit behaviour. The look, a typical big brother glance, had said that the appearance of such peaceful normality was in itself suspicious, so what was going on, little brother?

Sherlock beamed back at him, blankly bland, and went back to reading the newspaper. Christmas Eve was always a quiet day for hard news stories, so all the papers had gone to town on release of the news of the death of Jack Smallwood.

" **Lord Smallwood commits suicide,"** screamed the front page lead. And **"Letters shame peer takes own life"** below it. A photograph of Jack and Elizabeth in happier times. Before this, in the days leading up to Jack Smallwood's quiet death, Magnussen publications had been loud in their condemnation of public figures who had taken advantage of lesser beings in more permissive times, but never admitted their sins and scandals as if the passage of time absolved the indecencies.

Jack Smallwood had been described - and would have been recognised by anyone who knew him - but cleverly was never named directly. Inferences were made and clear, and somehow more damaging because of the indirect nature of the expose: for to defend would admit identity and guilt; to ignore would be as damning.

Sherlock had not followed the progress of the story. Had not even known about it. He had still been in Denmark, and, no longer employed by Lady Smallwood, had not been informed, and would have no recourse even if he had known.

The fact that he might have faced and faced down Magnussen about it had never been a possibility. But he would have. If he had known, if he had been at hand. Yet the omission still chafed, even if he was the only person involved who felt his ignorance was no defence at all.

Jack Smallwood had not wanted him told, George Bradshaw had explained. And Lady Smallwood, having terminated his employment, never would. And it was all too late now. The deed and it's consequences were done. That was then - this is now. Move on, stay sane.

So Sherlock Holmes read the newspaper article, and reflected it could have been worse, Bad enough it existed at all. But as a story something that would be forgotten by the Boxing Day newspapers tomorrow.

 _Tomorrow is another day, Elizabeth. This too, will pass….._

"Its been Christmas Day for at least a week now. How can it be only two o'clock?. I'm in agony."

Mycroft, suffering companionship and the sentimentality of Christmas with bad grace, even though the visit to their childhood home had been his idea, interrupted his thoughts.

"That is the one redeeming feature," Sherlock muttered automatically, trying not to grin.

The bonus of being the baby brother was that in family matters all expectancy was laid upon the elder child. And Mycroft took very seriously that responsibility to the couple he still called 'Mummy' and 'Pops' in a typical public schoolboy style that made his little brother recoil.

Sherlock, whose relativity to their parents was on the negative side of neutral, would have preferred to call them 'Mr Holmes' and 'Mrs Holmes.' But knowing that was unacceptable to everyone but himself, he tried to not have to call them anything at all unless he could avoid it.

Their child rearing theories had worked well enough on Mycroft, psychologically inclined to ascetic objectivity in all things. To the neuro atypical, emotional and borderline autistic younger child, the same theories had been destructive, damaging and despised by the child itself. Had been at the time, and were still.

"Mikey, is this your laptop?"

Mrs Holmes was bustling round the kitchen preparing the Christmas roast, still impossibly pretty for her age, with blonde hair and vivid violet eyes, dressed more for a city cocktail party than a country feast, in floaty organza top and black slacks.

She gestured vaguely at the steel rectangle placed carefully away from his position at the table, yet still within her elder son's reach. And somehow still vaguely in her way, at the end of the table

In the mysterious way these things happened in a busy kitchen, a bunch of freshly picked herbs, scatterings of eggshell and breadcrumbs and a handful of Maris Piper potatoes had found their way upon Mycroft's laptop and were now providing camouflage.

"On which depends the security of the free world. And you've got crumbs on it…." Mycroft replied tartly.

Sherlock looked up sharply then; gave a small secret smile as the two bickered, unbothered by the actuality of the laptop, but rather the state of it; a state which even to anyone who was not a consulting detective, indicated messily thrown together home made thyme and parsley stuffing was soon to appear.

"Well, you shouldn't leave it lying about if it's important," grumbled their mother vaguely. Waving a hand as it as if it might helpfully disappear. Abracadabra!

"Why are we doing this?" Mycroft's frustrated tone was peevish now. But no-one was offering him sympathy. "We never do this."

"Because Sherlock is home from hospital and we're all very happy," Mrs Holmes said with the deliberate patience as if addressing a small child. Sherlock silently smirked at the back.

"Am I happy too?" Mycroft interrogated, behaving appropriately childishly. " I haven't checked."

"Behave, Mike!"

"Mycroft is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end."

The exchange was interrupted by Wiggins bearing drinks. Punch for Mrs Holmes and for Mycroft, punch waved away by Sherlock, still balancing his mince pie plate on his lap and holding the newspaper.

To and fro easy conversation between Mrs Holmes and Wiggins Sherlock ignored except to interject comments: 'No.' 'Closer,' and, more irritably: 'Probably stop talking now' which had Wiggins retreat into hurt silence.

"So nice when you invite your friends round…." Mycroft oozed sarcasm; a flick of disdain back towards his younger brother.

"You stop it!" Their mother was immediately on the attack, knowing her elder son's acid tongue only too well, While she felt warmer towards Wiggins than she would ever have expected, as he was actually trying to be a helpful guest, this gaunt stranger at the party, mixing punch, preparing vegetables, chatting easily, and doing his best.

"Sherlock's been shot. Somebody put a bullet in my boy and if I ever find out who, I will turn absolutely monstrous."

For a moment, as she twirled back to them all to strengthen her words, she looked absolutely monstrous too, and for that moment she was very much a shrewd intelligence, that special quality normally now disguised and held in check by age and retirement, and yet made her suddenly and very visibly the mother of two such unusual and gifted sons.

Then the mood left her as quickly as it had come, and she grinned, half shrugged, returned to distracted mother mode again. Picked up a mug of tea, had it half way to her lips and then remembered..

"Now hang on; this was for Mary, back in a moment."

And was gone, to the sitting room where Mary was resting alone, nursing her enormous baby bump as prone to bouts of sudden overwhelming fatigue.

As she passed him Sherlock checked his wrist watch.

 **Countdown: 7.36**.

Nodded to John Watson as he came in from a walk outside, went through to the hall to take off his coat and gloves.

"Now, John," A soft voiced, vaguely worded order no-one else would understand..

"Yes. I know." Firm, committed.

And he strode through the kitchen as if off to a firing squad, on the heels of his hostess.

With neither of his parents in the room with him, Mycroft Holmes visibly relaxed.

"This is hard work," he observed to his brother.

"Told you," was the unsympathetic response.

"Ciggie break? Front garden?" Mycroft stood, slipped on the jacket hanging over his chair.

"Mmn. Give me a minute while I get my coat….."

A dash into the hall to dip into his own laptop bag, a dash back into the kitchen and out to the hall again. Taking a deep, steadying breath. His mother passed him and gave his shoulder a gentle pat in passing. He ignored it.

Lifting and putting on the Belstaff, tying the scarf, finding the gloves, all took an age for a man of speed and decision. Because he was eavesdropping what he could of the conversation between Dr and Mrs Watson.

When his father also then emerged unexpectedly from the same room Sherlock went into full coat-donning mode, patting his pockets, looking busy and distracted.

But his distinguished looking, clever but ineffectual father - marking Christmas as ever with a silly bow tie made of glossy red wrapping paper - was not paying attention to his boy.

"Those two….." he asked his younger son, gesturing behind him to show who he meant, frowning the same worried frown across the bridge of his nose that Sherlock could display. "Are they all right?"

His son half turned away, not to be caught out in a lie.

"Oh. You know. They've had their….ups and downs."

His father gave him a brief smile, patted his arm. Empathising with such rarely displayed tact.

"They'll be all right," he assured. "Sensible folk - sane. The both of them. Now - where's that punch?" and ambled back towards the kitchen.

" _We're doing this now?"_

" _All I have to say, all I need to know…."_

Sherlock could only catch the occasional word or phrase through the thick oak door, but he recognised the tones as quiet and placatory, heard and recognised the metallic clatter and fizz of resin burning in the logs as John Watson quixotically flung AGRA to the back of the sitting room fire.

 _Something else lost to the flames. Not John Watson lost to the flames this time. Something bad made good, this time. Did you not think I just might actually have taken a copy, though, John? For insurance? In case it was needed? Oh, you poor optimistic fool._

He knew enough. And Mycroft would be waiting.

o0o0o0o

In the winter-stark front garden to the cottage, the two brothers snatched a quiet moment of companionship, shoulders hunched while acclimatising to the cold, sharing cigarettes, breathing out a combination of smoke and cold December air as fog.

"Did you have some punch? Wiggins has an amazing knack for mixing things."

Mycroft was not fooled by the cheerful tone or the play on words.

"So do you." Pointedly. And with A Look.

"Not this time."

Sherlock did not wish to engage, and smiled pensively into the distance. From his carefully chosen position at the corner of the lawn he could just see into the sitting room. Shapes as silhouettes - nothing more - indicated the Watsons embracing.

Something that had been clutching Sherlock Holmes' heart for months let go, and he felt heady and breathless. Finally John Watson had rebuilt his bridges. Finally Mary Watson had welcomed him home. Finally his commands had been heeded.

 _So all this effort today will be worth it. All the work and the sacrifice. John and Mary will go forward now, Be ordinary, everyday, happy. Like they should be. Just this one last push, and the work will be done, the vow honoured. Their state of happy made to last into happy ever after, now._

 _Glad and sad, all at once. Not my life, not what I would want. No role, now. For the best, John, really. Look well to this day, for it is life….._

If Mycroft noticed and asked about the tears he could feel pricking his eyelids he would blame the nicotine hit. His first cigarette for months.

Into the silence the older brother made an almost inconsequential remark.

"I'm glad you've given up on the Magnussen business."

Magnussen was so present in his thoughts, Mycroft's words make him spin and face him, shocked. Such a remark was so unusual Sherlock looked warily and searchingly into his brother's face. Something was there behind Mycroft's eyes he could see but not read. Sadness, was it? Surely not? Knowledge? A surfeit of unshared information? As usual?

 _But it is Christmas; don't snipe, for once. Surprise him! Just offer an exploratory and soft toned:_

"Are you?"

Mycroft registered his brother's response with a minute narrowing of the eyes. Pushed on.

"I'm still curious, though, He's hardly your usual kind of puzzle. Why do you hate him?"

Sherlock was caught, off balance, still in the process of some emotion. For a second, as he turned away to avoid being read, Mycroft spotted sadness, confusion, resolution, vulnerability. Which made him think about Wiggins and punch. Laptops and the security of the free world. Of plans and counter plans. And held his tongue for once.

"He attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets." Sherlock bit the words individually free from his brain with an anger so deep it was almost inexpressible.

He thought helplessly of Jack Smallwood, Nick Haig, Fredrik Sondersun, fur rugs and antiseptic soap. Impotent rage threatened to give him the shakes, But he held back from saying anything more so nothing would be freed and turned into flood.

"Why don't you?"

Mycroft studied the end of his cigarette, the leaden sky, the overgrown hedge; anything but his little brother. Waited while he felt some storm pass through Sherlock, but was determined not to observe or comment. Not this time.

Replied finally with a deliberate gentle neutrality, trying to defuse the self contained time bomb that was suddenly standing next to him.

"He never causes too much damage to people of importance, he's far too intelligent for that. He's a businessman, that's all, and occasionally useful to us. A necessary evil, not a dragon for you to slay."

Sherlock turned away, looked at the ground, swallowing his anger, absorbing Mycroft's rare self restraint that was as good as an apology in their world of dark and distilled internal dialogues that had always expressed so much more than mere words could.

"A dragon slayer. Is that what you think of me?"

He allowed incredulity and honesty and even humility bleed into his voice, allowed his brother to hear that. In their internal language, this was as good as a hug, an act of mutual abnegation.

So Mycroft in return gifted a little smile of rare and complete honesty. And allowed Sherlock to see it and to read it.

"No." Softly, and then a little pause. And then with even more honesty, and acceptance, and something that might even be pride. "It's what you think of yourself."

He was staring at Sherlock now, willing him to look, to confide, to let him in, dammit…trying not to lean towards his brother's shoulder and initiate a touch… but at that inopportune moment the front door to the cottage opened with a squeak of reluctant hinges. Their mother, checking up on them.

Instantly both boys whipped round to face her, hiding the lit cigarettes behind their backs, trying not to look guilty. Not laugh. Not be children again.

"Are you two smoking?" The eternal parental accusation; even when the children concerned would never see thirty again.

"No!" Mycroft denied automatically. And yet just as he spoke he heard Sherlock make the typical little brother response: "It's Mycroft!"

Mr Holmes gave her boys a serious yet silent glare, closed the door again and left them alone again; had made sure they were alright, because the cigarette thing had been just an excuse, really; to just see them, so rarely together as they were, to make sure they were not fighting. A person who had always understood the relationship of her two unusual sons much less than most people who knew them. A vague and indescribable hole in her life, which neither of her boys would explain to her.

The interruption gave Mycroft a second to gather his wits, to remember to be peeved with Sherlock again. He stepped slightly away.

"I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you to decline."

The change of subject, the arch tone, were more typical of him. And he was back in his comfort zone.

Sherlock picked up the negativity and responded to it. Replied just as archly:

"I decline your kind offer."

Mycroft answered with a smile, a relaxation of his shoulders, a sense of relief.

"I shall pass on your regrets," he answered with neutral formality, yet managed to give the impression of approval.

Sherlock tried to curb his natural curiosity, but failed.

"What was it?"

Mycroft came closer. They were both suddenly standing, appropriately enough, on the garden path. Looking up it.

"MI6," he answered and paused. How much to confide? "They want to place you back in Eastern Europe. An undercover assignment that would prove fatal to you in, I think, about six months."

A rare admission of secret knowledge, and superior assessment.

"Then why don't you want me to take it?"

That surprise in the face of his protectiveness, the vulnerability of that, made something inside Mycroft recoil from himself, feel shame, a sense of attrition. Oh, brother. What do I do to you with my constant belittlement of you, my constant put-downs? Even if they are so necessary, to curb and strengthen you…..

"It's tempting, but on balance you have more utility closer to home."

And that was as daring as he may be. The closest to what he should say, but could never say: 'I know what you are doing, Sherlock; and if this is the last time I ever talk to you…'

"Utility? How do I have utility?"

Genuinely open hearted, sounding humble, self deprecating; as if seriously wanting to know. Because he never did believe….not really…..

Mycroft met Sherlock's smile with a smile of his own. And how rare can a smile be between brothers? Between these brothers? They acknowledged that mutual realisation without words. Both looked away from the other, glared at their cigarettes as if the nicotine was to blame for the strange half conversation they were having.

Mycroft opened his arms, shrugged, gave an unusual ironic half smile.

"Here be dragons," he quoted. No irony, no frustration, in his words, though. Just an admission to a dragon slayer. Glared again at the cigarette in his hand.

"This isn't agreeing with me." The conversation? The admission? The warning? The protection? The cigarette? All. Any. A half sigh. "I'm going in."

Sherlock was no longer looking at him; but regarding the sky, blowing smoke rings, distractedly other, detached and superior again.

"You need low tar. You still smoke like a beginner," the disdain of the expert in the face of the amateur.

Mycroft took a beat, storing that vivid and possibly final image of his little brother into his own Memory Palace; a tall, erect implacability, an unmistakable silhouette. Long skirted coat, scarf tugged by the wind, boyish curls - always the most physical sign of the contradictions within him, Mycroft always thought - that imperious set of the head, eyes elsewhere. A mental snapshot. Just in case he should need to reference it later and forever.

He turned and faced the front door, looked long and hard at the old oak, the studs enforcing it. He suddenly decided he needed enforcing, too. Something he wanted to say; didn't want to say; needed to say. In case it was the last thing he ever said to him, or his brother heard him say.

Without looking back, knowing Sherlock was not looking at him, might not even hear, or pay any attention if he did, there remained that thing he still had to say.:

"Also….." an infinitesimal pause, but no going back now. "…your loss would break my heart."

An admission of the sort he never made. An admission shaming and sentimental. An admission of an eternal truth. And an I-know-what-you-are-doing-Sherlock tone of voice to mitigate anything that could be read or misread into his words.

He turned back, and his brother slowly turned towards him, affronted. Resenting the joke. Or the humanity.

"What the hell am I supposed to say to that?"

Challenge. Denying any sentiment. Not responding in kind. Good. Very good.

"Merry Christmas?" Mycroft faced his brother and asked the question with delicate irony.

"You hate Christmas." Giving no quarter. Even better.

"Yes. Perhaps there was something in the punch."

A long shot, a risk, a daring pretence of a joke. I can't say it any plainer, child: Run the game. Do it. Because no-one else could, or would dare.

"Clearly," the single word delivered cold, dismissive, superior. All good. We deny each other. And so we go on…..Mycroft half smiled, and Sherlock stopped that uncomfortable idiocy with an instruction. "Go and have some more."

 _Absolve yourself, Mycroft. Be absent from this. Drink you medicine like a good boy. Leave me alone._

And so Mycroft Holmes opened the door and stepped back into the house, into warmth and Christmas cheer.

Now alone, Sherlock retreated back to the far corner of the lawn, to see into the sitting room. John and Mary's silhouettes still in an embrace. Mary facing him, towards the window, but not looking out. A pale shape of a face.

With no-one to observe him, Sherlock's face was set, immobile. Cold and cold.

For in that moment of isolation in solitude he was back at New Scotland Yard just two days earlier, walking his way between filing cabinets and haphazard Christmas decorations towards Lestrade's office.

The Detective Inspector was sitting at his desk with his head in his hands lost in paperwork, so did not hear his approach until the door was opened without preamble

and Sherlock announced his presence as much as greeted him with a quiet:

"Happy Christmas, Lestrade."

For that off guard moment, as he looked up, Greg Lestrade's face was a mixture of relief and pleasure at seeing him, and the way he pushed his chair back to cross the room and envelop the consulting detective in a clumsy bear hug rendered them both speechless with surprise.

"It's….not been two years this time," Sherlock pointed out, almost making a joke, feeling awkward and embarrassed.

"Feels like it," Lestrade muttered, stepping back from the hug but taking him by the shoulders and holding him away while he examined him.

"You look damn good," he said, a rare personal remark. "How do you feel?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Like me."

Sally Donovan came in and left a stack of manilla folders in Lestrade's in tray, went out again. Poking Sherlock in the side with a sharp finger as she did so. Making a terse comment as only she could.

"Still a freak then? Pity." And, with a wry grin, remembering the last time she had seen him, ill and in hospital: "You look good. But you still look better naked."

"Psyche has spoken," Sherlock said drily to her disappearing back. "Or is it Cassandra?"

"More like Aunt Sally out of Worzel Gummidge," Lestrade complained, and they grinned at each other like teenagers.

"No, mate. Joking apart, it's great to see you. You got my text?"

"Why I'm here."

Lestrade shut the door so the two of them were alone in the office, and not overheard. He sat back down behind the desk and motioned Sherlock into the seat opposite.

"I wanted to let you know that the cases are proceeding. We are still investigating the many and nefarious pies Mark and Marie Dixon Carr had their fingers in; another six months case building on that one; it is seriously complicated and every single law enforcement organisation in the country seems to be needing a slice.

"But there are holding charges, all serious, from people trafficking and money laundering to drug dealing and tax evasion. They are not getting bail, and they remain in prison on remand until their trials. And with all the evidence there is no doubt they will go down. I would say on a fifteen to twenty stretch at the very least."

"Thank you for telling me. I didn't want to expect anything less."

"I needed you to know that. We are also monitoring their outside contacts very carefully. We have determined that they will not be in a position to organise anyone to take their revenge. On you."

"Yes. Thank you."

"Same goes for the attempted murder and grievous bodily harm charges against Marie Dixon Carr regarding yourself and Fredrik Sondersun. That is going forward. Bearing in mind she shot Mr Sondersun on a public thoroughfare, and made a second attempt to shoot you, also in a public place, I can more or less guarantee the book will be thrown.

"This one is pretty straightforward, though, and we expect this to come to court in around four months. That OK with you?"

Sherlock nodded.

"As for the father of these wonderful children, his attempted murder of you should also be in court around the same time. He will not be allowed out on bail either. He is far too high profile. Also he is no longer a Member of Parliament and to add insult to injury, the seat has changed allegiance."

Lestrade couldn't help grinning at that. Sherlock, taken by surprise, found himself grinning back. "Sort of felt like poetic justice," Lestrade remarked. He looked at his notes. "He will also be tried, with his charming children, on all the charges related to the _Il Rondo_ nightclub. He is the owner on paper, and as we delve into club accounts and testimony, it is clear that although he left a lot of the day to day villainy to his kids, he was still the head of things."

"Good. Thank you. But you could have told me that on the telephone, or in an email."

"Yes, I could. But I wanted to see you - wanted the team to see you - back in business, your old self again. Do us all good, that. Good as a Christmas pressie.""

"That is a vote of confidence I do not necessarily merit," Sherlock replied, very formal.

"Stop doing the stiff upper lip thing, posh boy," Lestrade admonished with a grin. Then dropped the smile, leant forward with his elbows on the desk. Looked at the consulting detective with a rare intensity.

"The other reason I wanted to see you. Here. Alone. To tell me something."

Sherlock looked back at him poker faced, and said nothing.

"Not going to make it easy for me, then? OK. That's normal. Tell me what we are going to do about Magnussen."

Knowing the question would have been totally unexpected, he watched the man sitting across from him carefully. Watched the head rise, the eyes blink fast four times, the hard swallow, the suddenly blanked down stare.

"Speak to me, you sod."

"Nothing to say. No idea what you're talking about."

"Sherlock. I know."

"You don't know anything."

"I know. I really do know. " Lestrade sighed and slowly shook his head. "You gave me the telephone number for one of the top decision makers in MI5. Someone to contact if I needed to call in the ambulances. A number that was not Mycroft's. And a file.

"You can't blame a policeman for being interested and needing to know what you wouldn't or couldn't tell me, Sherlock. So I nosed about a bit….."

"Not fair to interrogate Molly….."

"I didn't interrogate Molly. Your brother…sort of…told me something of what had happened…."

"I shall disembowel the ….."

No! It wasn't like that! No! It was so I knew…so if it was needed, we could protect you….between us….So he said, just a little, that Magnussen had done something awful to you. But I saw those newspaper photographs of you. Recognised Molly and Kitty Riley from those paparazzi photos. Didn't take much brain to put two and two together."

"No, Lestrade."

"Both the police and MI5 are investigating Magnussen, creeping up on him little by little. But this is something else, Sherlock. Not corporate crime, not the illicit doings of s businessman in a boardroom. This is….assault. Personal. Man to man."

"No."

"Yes, bugger you. Oh….bad, bad wording, sorry…..sorry…"

Sherlock Holmes got to his feet and turned away so quickly, the castors screamed the chair across the tiled floor to hit the far wall, and it took a speed of reaction Lestrade thought he no longer had to reach the door and slam it shut as the younger man hauled it open.

"Wait, Sherlock. Hear me out. Talk to me." He managed a travesty of a grin, his back to the closed door, his face too close to the younger man's. "Talk to the nice policeman, Sherlock. Just being a policeman right now. Not your friend. Nothing personal. Does that make it better? Easier?"

"I'll deny it all, Lestrade. I do deny it all."

Lestrade looked up into a blank face with wild eyes and heard breathing rasped too hard and fast

"OK, then. Long as we both know."

The detective inspector nodded once, stepped away from the door. Gestured with his hand for Sherlock Holmes to go through it.

"Go, then."

Sherlock Holmes put his hand out, opened the door just far enough to be able to slide through, ignoring all the faces in the squad room turned in their direction. Hesitated and looked back.

"That's….it?" Looked puzzled, bewildered.

"Yeah. Just go. Can't help if you won't let me. Not on this." Lestrade was stern and unyielding, unlike his usual rumpled, peaceable self. "This sort of thing is a hard one, Sherlock. Hard to deal with, hard to react to. Even though Mycroft tells me there is hard evidence - solid proof."

He watched his friend slump, look away, groan with something more than frustration.

"I would say….if you won't cooperate, then I can't help you. Only you never cooperate do you? Not really. You always go your own sweet way, regardless. So it's up to you to decide, mate. Whether you're going to be brave and do something about it. Or whether you are going to back off and be beaten. Let him get away with it."

"It's not like that…."

The voice was so small Lestrade barely heard it, even though he was only inches away, watching the familiar face opposite him keenly.

"Then tell me what it is like."

"More than just me. So many more than me. Don't you see? If I start thinking of me in this equation, I'll….I'll lose it. And I can't afford to do that. Not for a minute."

For a long inhalation of breath they simply looked at one another.

"Get out, Sherlock." Lestrade's voice was stern, full of disillusionment. Sherlock Holmes nodded slightly, dropped his head and started to move away. Lestrade looked again; a policeman's assessment. Was aware of an infinite weight across the shoulders, a slump of something like defeat, of sadness and a numb determination. Despite himself and his anger for justice, he heard himself say:

"Get on with it, then. Walk through the fire on your own. Just remember where I am."

And he watched Sherlock Holmes walk away without another word, or look.

"And happy Christmas to you, too!" he called after him.

No reply came back.

o0o0o0o

A blackbird trilled in the hedge, and Sherlock Holmes came back to himself, checked his watch.

Seven minutes. Almost eight had been the calculation; that and a little more. This was closer to fifteen. Perhaps the calculations had been too exact, the rate of drinking too leisurely? Yes, that would be it; Christmas in idleness.

He looked again. No smile as he observed John and Mary, talking and embracing. Sherlock allowed himself a sharp nod of satisfaction when he finally observed Mary dip, slump; John Watson move to put his arms around her, hold her up and shift her to lie on the sofa.

Sherlock entered the house in six long strides, crossed the hall, raced to the sitting room, and burst in without knocking.

"Don't drink Mary's tea," he ordered.

In a swift glance he saw Mary laid on the sofa, John Watson hovering over her, indecisive, surprised out of his doctor's training. Looked up at Sherlock, his face a universe of puzzlement and pain. Yet still moved to follow as Sherlock withdrew again at speed.

John Watson abandoned his wife to race instinctively after his best friend. Saw Mr Holmes lying unconscious on a sofa - Sherlock checking he was still breathing with the back of his hand to his father's mouth.

"Oh, or the punch!" Sherlock added as he did so.

Unmoved by his father's collapse he was calm, decisive, in control.

Back in the kitchen Mrs Holmes was also unconscious, lying back in the very armchair Sherlock had been sitting in until a few moments earlier. Sherlock automatically checked for steady breathing. No gentleness or affection in the touch, just amassing data.

Crossed the kitchen and put his hand to Mycroft's face, Mycroft was sitting back at the table again, but unconscious now, and slumped protectively over his laptop.

Sherlock impassively levered the computer from under his brother's arm.

John Watson had risen to his full height, hands clenched in shocked fists, red spots of anger on his cheeks. Working it all out.

"Did you just drug my pregnant wife?" he demanded

A little look of distracted assessment from Sherlock Holmes that said: 'isn't that obvious?' But what he actually said, soothingly, was:

"Don't worry, Wiggins is an excellent chemist."

Bill Wiggins was leaning calmly against the worktop, unstressed, uninvolved, the same expression of calm watchfulness he had worn a lifetime ago when in Molly's laboratory watching Sherlock being tested for drugs.

"Calculated your wife's dose myself," Wiggins nodded reassuringly. "Won't affect the little one and I'll keep an eye on them all."

"He'll monitor them all as they recover," Sherlock nodded too. Added: "More or less his day job." Quirked a conspiratorial grin in a conspiracy that did not include John Watson. Who was in no way reassured.

"What the hell have you done?" John Watson demanded.

And at this Sherlock Holmes paused, looked away and gathered a huge breath to himself.

"A deal. With the devil."

For a second he came to a full halt. Eyes blank and all energy checked. Distressed at this, immediately frightened, his friend whirled back into the sitting room, Found he was not in the middle of a bad dream,; he hadn't imagined anything. Mary still lay unconscious on the sofa with a small smile on her lips. Looking relaxed, at peace, almost cosy.

"Sherlock, please tell me you haven't gone out of your mind?" John Watson shouted through the house as he spun on his heel and returned to the kitchen.

"I prefer to keep you guessing."

And a wicked grin then, that manic glint in the eye that meant trouble for someone. Sherlock Holmes was hunting. Hunting down the bad guy.

For a moment there was silence. Then the sound of a helicopter could be heard, drawing closer. On Christmas Day? John Watson decided the world had gone mad; or had he simply forgotten what life was like standing alongside Sherlock Holmes? Had it always been as mad as this?

"Ah! There's our lift." Sherlock Holmes looked to the skies, and grinned through gritted teeth; offering a strange sort of satisfaction. "Wiggins, you're in charge."

"You can rely on me."

"Remember about not stealing?"

John Watson, feeling he was in a madhouse and needed to get out, flung open the back door of the kitchen, and strode outside. Left the warmth of the house behind him and into a dull afternoon sky that was too early for gathering twilight.

To see a helicopter descending into the clover meadow next to the house, a helicopter emblazoned with the CAM News logo.

John Watson came to a full stop, waiting for Sherlock Holmes to catch him up. He emerged in his coat…but had not taken off his coat when he had come in. So had been expecting the arrival of the helicopter then? Just then, and right on time, John Watson realised belatedly. But now Sherlock had Mycroft's laptop under his arm, John's coat in his other hand.

"Coming?" he asked, as casually as if offering an invitation to a child's birthday party.

"Where?" asked Watson succinctly.

"Want your wife to be safe?" A question, not a reply.

"Of course I do."

"Good, Because this is going to be incredibly dangerous. One false move and we'll have betrayed the security of the United Kingdom and we'll be in prison for high treason," Sherlock was concentrating on the helicopter, not his friend and ally. Talking fast now, all in one breath, not letting Watson get a word in edgeways, burden him with more questions. Questions he neither wanted, nor had time to answer.

Getting to this point had been so hard. And would get harder yet.

"Magnussen is quite simply the most dangerous man we have ever encountered, and the odds are comprehensively stacked against us."

John Watson turned to him. Lost for words. Even though he had been warned. More than once. Why had he not trusted? Because he had put all this down to a sense of melodrama from a drama queen? Had lost his role and instinct as a battle hardened veteran when he demoted himself to emotional husband and father to be? He slumped.

"But it's Christmas!" he heard himself plea.

Sherlock grinned at him, and their eyes met, clashed.

" I feel the same!" A expression of something like glee. And then the realisation that Watson was appalled, somewhere beyond anger. "Oh! You mean it really is Christmas." A infinitesimal pause, a change of subject.

"Did your bring your gun, as I suggested?"

"Why would I bring my gun to your parents house for Christmas dinner?" A puzzled, angry, voice. The voice and expression of a man who recognised he had been finally trapped by circumstance and his own actions.

Sherlock Holmes passed him his coat.

"Is it in your coat?" Curtly. A ridiculous question; he had checked on the contents of the pocket several times since the Watsons had arrived at the cottage early on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. No Watson Sig would have meant having to get the Browning from his washbag, and that was not part of the plan…

"Yes." Equally curtly.

They did not look at each other, but strode forwards, shoulder to shoulder.

"Off we go then," in that snappy voice of false bonhomie Watson always disliked so much.

"Where are we going?"

"Appledore."

The doctor was struck dumb for three strides until he realised he had little time left for them to be alone together, for him to say exactly what he needed to say. Had needed to say for a very long time. Not just when he had no choice.

"I'm not going to let you down," he said, voice low, earnest.

"I know."

They kept walking towards the helicopter. Eyes forward, not looking at each other, not breaking stride.

"I'm not going to let Magnussen do…anything awful….to you. Not again. And if I need to….I will kill him. I killed Jeff Hope to save you . I will kill Magnussen."

"That may not be necessary. But thank you for saying so."

"I mean it."

"I know." Sherlock Holmes, whose voice had been totally pragmatic until that point, suddenly added: " But I am not letting you into danger. Or be damaged. My vow. And anyway, you have a new life to come back to. Do you hear me?"

"Shut up, you idiot."

"If I'm an idiot, what are you?"

They were smiling, relaxed and confident with each other as they had not been for years; full of energy now, and sense of purpose, as the door of the helicopter swung open.

 _John. Everything about to happen will be worth all the effort, all the pain, if just for these few moments; just to know the old affinity had never gone, was only sleeping. To know I was right after all. Worth any vow to know that. Any sacrifice. Sentiment aside…John Watson._

A dark haired man with broad shoulders and heavy lidded eyes stepped out of the helicopter to greet them. Sherlock had a vague feeling this was someone he knew - or remembered from being in Appledore before? - and automatically hid the shock of this recognition..

The Appledore employee narrowed his eyes as he sensed the positive energy coming off both men, reverted to formality and gestured them into the rear seats.

"Good afternoon, Mr Holmes, how nice to see you again," the accent on the word nice' put Sherlock's teeth on edge. As clearly intended. "Dr Watson, I presume? And happy Christmas to you both. Shall we depart?"

They stepped into the rear seat, buckled themselves in. And the rotor blades of the CAM News helicopter began to turn.

TO BE CONTINUED…

 **Author's notes:**

The newspaper mock up style used in this episode is consistent with the Guardian (Manchester Guardian) Exactly the newspaper liberal intellectuals such as the Holmes' parents would read.

'Tomorrow is another day' is the last line of the American Civil War novel and film _Gone With The Wind_ by Margaret Mitchell, and has entered common usage.

'And this too shall pass.' - from a Persian fable. A phrase used by Abraham Lincoln, among others, and in common usage around the world for centuries.

Crumbs on the laptop or potatoes? The TV episode uses potatoes; the final shooting script says crumbs. The change is pragmatic. Crumbs are too small to have shown on screen, especially as not central to the shot in which they would appear, so potatoes would have been substituted for size and practicality. However unlikely than a mathematician would have put raw peeled potatoes on a laptop lid!

Thyme and parsley stuffing: A concoction of bread crumbs, herbs, egg and seasoning eaten as an accompaniment to a roast meal, either served separately or as a stuffing for meat or poultry and game.

Look well to this day, for it is life: from the C4th Sanskrit poem by playwright and poet Kalidasa.

Deal with the Devil: a staple of many Christian folktales, most especially as the agreement between Faustus and Mephistopheles in Marlowe's Dr Faustus.

The myth of the dragon slayer crosses all cultures. There are many dragon slaying heroes, some rescuing a maiden, some not. It is seen as a psychological metaphor - the hero binding himself to, or defeating, his own ego depending on context. Symbolically it is also seen as taming wildness or nature; that at root slaying a dragon is defeating fear itself.

'Here be dragons.' means to enter into unexplored or dangerous territory, to reflect a practise of early map makers, who though the earth was flat and people and seas could fall off the edge. Into these uncharted areas were drawn dragons. mermaids and other fantastic monsters, And so the phrase 'here be dragons' took on a related meaning even as time passed, the earth was seen to be round, and people stopped believing in dragons.

Psyche: a mortal girl who fell in love with the Greek god Eros (Cupid) and became divine. The story has been retold through history, and has many similarities to a combination of Cinderella and Beauty And The Beast.

Cassandra: A soothsayer fated to have all her predictions come true - but have no-one believe them at the time. The daughter of King Priam and Hecuba, and a princess of Troy, she was considered beautiful and intelligent, with dark eyes and dark curly hair, but had been cursed to not have her prophesies believed when she rejected the sexual advances of the god Apollo.

Aunt Sally and Worzel Gummidge. Characters in children's books by Barbara Euphan Todd, Worzel is a kind, crafty but simplistic scarecrow, and the Victorian fairground doll Aunt Sally is the love of his life; a rather supercilious and vain young lady. A fondly remembered TV series starred former Dr Who Jon Pertwee and Una Stubbs (Mrs Hudson)


	36. Chapter 36

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 36: 'Sat apart and watched….'

The action for this chapter is formulated direct from the final shooting script for the TV episode - and is used in full because as both script and action is very dense, and omissions would be both unfair and reductive. There always has to be some element of 'read what you see' in dealing with extending a TV episode in this way, but I make no apology for this: riveting viewing should be honoured and treated as such when extending into words and thought process!

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o.

From the air, Appledore was even more impressive than on the ground. A minimalist concrete and glass thing of beauty, a design of circles within circles. of sweeping lines, lakes and pools, sitting in a natural bowl of countryside. The dream home of a multi millionaire.

The helicopter swept down onto the helipad, and Erik Carlsson walked across to greet them and escort them into the presence of Charles Augustus Magnussen.

"Happy Christmas, Mr Holmes," he said, and his smile could have turned blood to ice. John Watson took a quick look at Sherlock Holmes and spotted the physical withdrawal, the intellectual barriers raised. "Welcome to Appledore. Once again." Sherlock did not reply, did not even look at the man. Carlsson took no notice.

"And good afternoon to you, too, Dr Watson. I do so hope you will be warm and comfortable during your visit to us."

Another little dig about bonfires: Sherlock Holmes released his anger and frustration with a deep and noisy exhale. The man with the silver ponytail smiled again. Bowed to them in mock subservience, gestured to them to follow him across the grass towards the house, the dark haired man behind.

Escorts or guides? Greeters or guards? John Watson turned as if leisurely to watch Magnussen's two men, and his friend watched his professional, army captain's assessment snap into place. Watched John Watson's body language change from casual visitor to crisp military precision.

The consulting detective nodded to himself, allowed a small secret grin and the recognition that a fear lurking somewhere between his head and his heart for so long stilled and became quiet.

They walked through the house - all futuristic curves, shining glass walls and surfaces, blond wood, bespoke burr walnut doors throughout - to reach the mezzanine above the fully enclosed winter garden.

Charles Augustus Magnusson - smart suit, blue shirt, sharp and crisp as if for the office, despite it being Christmas Day afternoon - Queen's message, _The Sound Of Music_ and all - was sitting relaxed on a long and low white leather sofa on the mezzanine above the covered winter garden, enjoying the long views onto the Cotswold hills outside, onto the core of his house from the inside.

He smiled gently as they came into his presence, but neither spoke nor stood to greet them, did not put down his chunky tumbler of what looked like either neat whisky or bourbon. He simply gave them a cursory glance, but did not even speak, and seemed far more interested in watching grainy action film being shown on a screen in front of him.

"I would offer you a drink, but it is very rare and expensive."

The inferred insult in the calm off hand words were wasted on his guests, who were made of sterner stuff.

Sherlock Holmes sat, uninvited, on the sofa next to Magnussen; two could play at that game.

He settled the laptop deliberately into the space between them, and arranged his coat comfortably around him. John Watson stood facing them, at parade rest, frowned at the sideways look and slight smile Sherlock shot towards Magnussen and felt a flare of something raise a warning in his brain.

So Sherlock admired the man despite himself. Something else too. Repulsed, attracted, entertained, challenged? Yes. All those things, it seemed; and more, and all at once.

Magnussen kept his eyes on the screen. Proving himself uninterested in their presence. In the silence the visitors followed his eyes and saw on screen what Magnussen saw, and was so entertained by…a bonfire. A bonfire burning in a town square, burning in the dark.

Cries of 'John! John!' came from the speakers - voices he recognised as those of his best friend and his wife. The sound of his name being called drew John Watson into stepping forward to see better, stand closer to the screen.

Seeing what he had never seen before. A new perspective of an event burned into his memory by shock and fear and fire. Because he had been the semi conscious man inside that bonfire. Aware of his immobility, aware of the flames flickering around him. But unable to move, and unaware of what else was going on around him. Unaware of how he had been brought out of the flames. And how close he had come to dying.

But suddenly there was Sherlock Holmes. Running forward and straight into the bonfire without hesitation, Mary in that eyecatching red coat, just behind him. Sherlock Holmes plunging into the flames. Shouting John Watson's name. Tearing aside beams and branches and burning wood, demolishing the fire that surrounded John Watson. Unheeding of danger and the risk to himself of being burned, or hit by falling blazing timbers, diving into the flames -shouting, shouting his name…..reaching down and reaching in, and hauling his friend out of the very heart of the fire.

Desperation and determination in every line of him, fear and the defeat of it. John Watson could not take his eyes from what he was seeing. And would never forget.

How could he have ever - ever - have doubted Sherlock Holmes' feelings for him? How could he have ever gone to him the next day and told him off for apologising about it all? How could he have not realised the degree of danger and courage taken to save him?

Had he been so full of his own life, his own woes, that he had just dismissed it as the sort of mad thing the man always did?

But not like this. What was that definition of courage as strength coming from caring? And that courage is not being any braver than the next man, just for five minutes longer? Yes. Of course. That was Sherlock.

Sherlock throwing himself hard, backwards, onto the grass to gain the momentum to drag John Watson out of the bonfire fast as Mary Watson hovered around them, He had John Watson in his arms and suddenly safe. Then John Watson was lying dazed on the grass, like a fish landed from an alien element onto land. Safe from the fire now. Covered in muck and soot, cuts and grazes on his face and hands, still disorientated from the drugs he had been given on the pavement outside 221B, Baker Street when dragged to the ground by two strangers and overpowered. But out of all that and safe now.

Sherlock Holmes rising, turning fast on his hands and knees, kneeling up, reaching round and down, patting his cheek to bring him round, curling his gloved hand protectively around his face. Saying his name with urgency then with something quieter and near tenderness as John Watson blinked his way to consciousness, smiling with relief at feeling the cool air on his face and seeing two pairs of concerned then relieved eyes looking into his.

The memory of it, the new perspective on his rescue the film presented, took his breath away. Sherlock Holmes had always given the impression he had done nothing, merely pulled him a few yards across the grass by the shoulders. Not that he had plunged into a fire and risked his own life to save the life.

"Oh, I see. It was you." Sherlock Holmes' voice was light, vaguely amused, utterly unmoved. He was deliberately not looking at John Watson, he was looking at Magnussen, a small smile on his lips masking his thoughts.

"Yes, of course." Magnussen took another pull of the whisky. "Very hard to find a pressure point on you Mr Holmes, The drugs thing I never believed for a moment And anyway, you wouldn't care if it was exposed. But look how you care about John Watson." His tone of voice became caressing, intimate, and John Watson's skin crawled.

And in that second he understood, precisely and utterly, the reasons for Sherlock Holmes' fear and caution when dealing with Charles Augustus Magnussen. And was struck dumb by this, by too much information and awareness gained in too short a time.

" Your damsel in distress." Four words so dismissive, so insultingly intimate, so denigrating, John Watson could not even think of any suitable words in response.

Fascinated as he had been by watching his rescue over and over on a loop, John Watson finally looked away from the screen and turned to Magnussen, unable to come up with any words except:

"You put me in a bloody fire - for leverage?"

His voice came low and deliberate, his stance suddenly pugnacious. He was the smallest and least elegant man in the room in his red plaid shirt and corduroy jacket and overcoat, but the anger and the threat in him was unmistakable.

Despite the fact that the tall, cool and elegant men sitting so close together on the white leather sofa wore identical supercilious smiles. Watson knew he should feel demeaned and outnumbered. But all he wanted to do at that moment was to smack someone; both if them, perhaps, sitting there cloaked in their vanity and matching arrogance. Dueling with words and smiles and body postures, as if this was a game, not reality.

They seemed uncannily, eerily, alike at that moment; and the man in the middle felt a sudden stab of premonition. Fear of the unknown. Of the veiled menace that lay at the core of Magnussen. But also a despairing recognition as to how utterly unknowable Sherlock Holmes could be.

And, remembering Agnaro - ' _I do whatever is needed to win. You know that' -_ came the fear of what Sherlock Holmes felt now. What he could and would do. To win the day.

"I would never have let you burn, Dr Watson," The words should have been reassuring, but the tone of voice was too mocking to be totally believed, and was not. "I had people standing by. I am not a murderer. Unlike your wife."

He rose, crossed the mezzanine, stopped the video loop, folded back the projection screen. Turned back to Watson, head high, hands in pockets, supercilious smile still in place.

"Let me explain how leverage works, Dr Watson. For those who understand these things; Mycroft Holmes is the most powerful man in the country. Well - apart from me." Words spoken as if to a child. A pause; the smile deepened.

"Mycroft's pressure point is his junkie detective brother Sherlock. Sherlock's pressure point is John Watson, his best friend. John Watson's pressure point is his wife. I own John Watson's wife, I own Mycroft."

The smile became smug. Self satisfied. He strolled back towards Sherlock Holmes. Sat back down slowly and gracefully. Put one hand out for the laptop.

"He's what I receive for Christmas."

Sherlock Holmes looked up. With feigned casualness he pushed the laptop he had taken from underneath his unconscious brother's arm back at the cottage across the sofa and Magnussen picked it up.

"It's an exchange, not a gift." His voice was calm, gently peeved, pedantic. Correcting. John Watson watched this exchange in baffled and appalled silence. Had Sherlock just passed government secrets to Magnussen? Betrayed Mycroft? Betrayed his country? Just to save Mary?

Outside the cottage and waiting for the helicopter Sherlock had said as much: _'One false move and we will have betrayed the security of the United Kingdom, and we will be in prison for high treason.'_

Now, only now, did John Watson fully understand what those words had meant. What Sherlock Holmes had done. And he could only watch the plotters at work now, out of this part of the game completely, transfixed but hopeless.

"Excuse me," Magnussen hugged the laptop to his chest, fingered it with delicate strokes. Smirked with the achievement of victory. "But I already seem to have it?"

Sherlock was standing now, hands deep in his coat pockets. Erect, unyielding, watchful.

"It's password protected." His tone was almost patronising. Slow and calculated. "In return for the password you will give me all materials in your possession pertaining to the woman I know as Mary Watson."

Magussen nodded, thoughtful. Then was smiling again. Which made Sherlock concentrate. Narrow his eyes and wait for the blow that he knew was coming.

 _What had Lady Smallwood said? 'No-one stands up to him. No-one dare.' Well I stood up to him. I dared. It seared my soul, but I did it. I have brought down some of his closest associates. Foiled several of his blackmail plots._

 _Have I achieved more than anyone else? Yes, I have. And I am still alive. If I fail….if I die now…..I will still have achieved. Made a difference. And if I die now, John will know. Mycroft will know. How and where and why I died._

 _Kitty and Dale and Ellie, Ari and Piet and Fredrik. Nick and Jack and Elizabeth. Maggie and her network. Mary Watson. All worth saving. And Sherlock Holmes. All victims of Charles Augustus Magnussen._

 _All reprieved and released by what I have done. Not enough, though. Far from enough. But the best and only things I could have done. Salvaged the best that could be saved from the worst of situations, the most implacable of enemies._

 _Not much of an epitaph, but the best in the circumstances: 'He did his best.' Even if that best was never going to be good enough….._

Quelled the destructive thoughts. Turned his attention back to Magnussen.

"Oh, she's bad, that one," he was mock serious, a smirk on his lips. "So many dead people. You should see what I've seen."

He was looking at John Watson now, talking about Mary. Sherlock said nothing; he knew, having seen the AGRA file John Watson had not, that perhaps, just this once, Magnussen was speaking the truth.

"I don't need to see it." John Watson declared firmly, voice low with anger and hurt.

"You might enjoy it, though." Magnussen's voice was calm and coaxing, eyes twinkling "I enjoy it."

"Then show us," Sherlock Holmes demanded.

"Show you Appledore? The secret vaults of Appledore? Is that what you want?"

Something was amusing Magnussen. A secret knowledge. Sherlock Holmes realised a clever trick was in progress, some sleight of hand he neither knew about nor understood. Magnussen was holding back from a reveal only he would enjoy and be amused by.

And Sherlock knew then. And with utter clarity, who was going to suffer. It was not going to be Charles Augustus Magnussen.

"I want everything you have on Mary," he insisted once more. Poker face played poker face against the highest odds and for the most important prize. Play the game, not the hand.

Magnussen leant back, contemplating Sherlock for a long moment of silence and suspense. Then he laughed. Sherlock resisted an impulse to deliver a roundhouse right. Or left. Or both. Which one was immaterial in the cause of wiping the satisfied smirk off the Danish businessman's supercilious face.

"You know," he said, dismissive, almost light hearted now, "I honestly expected something good."

Sherlock Holmes bridled visibly.

"I think you'll find the contents of that laptop….." he began.

"Include a GPS locator," Magnussen completed the sentence in a way Sherlock had not expected. And yet…and yet….he himself had been fitted with a GPS locator by Magussen. Magnussen knew too much about GPS locators. And would expect other people to be wise to them also. Naturally.

."By now your brother will have noticed the theft. And the security services will be converging on this house. Having arrived, they will discover top secret information in my hands, and will have every justification to search my vaults." Magnussen's voice describing this projection was brisk, precise, unarguable. "They will discover further information of this kind, and I will be imprisoned. You will be exonerated and restored to your smelly little apartment to solve crimes with Mr and Mrs Psychopath."

His calm recital suddenly gained some edge, and he looked Sherlock Holmes straight in the eyes. Cold blooded amusement crept in.

"Mycroft has been looking for this opportunity for a very long time. He will be a very proud big brother."

 _At last! As I always suspected! Brother dear, why did you - could you - never, ever, confide in me? Told me how strongly Magnusen was on your radar? I would have helped you, protected you. I did try. If you had listened to me, if you had confided, much of this agony could have been avoided. Trust issues. Over inflated ego. Delusions of invulnerability. Recipe for disaster. Not me alone, then._

"The fact you know it's going to happen won't stop it?" There was puzzlement in his voice.

For he knew there was something Magnussen thought he should know, should be able to understand, should have worked out. But as yet he lacked sufficient data. And perhaps that was for the best? At this moment, this turning point, the cold feeling of danger sidled up towards him, ready to ambush and panic and frighten.

"Then why am I smiling?" Magnussen asked his own question, the question Sherlock Holmes would and should have been asking if he hadn't been verging on going into melt down, his great computer brain failing him for once just when he needed it most, with defeat beckoning from the other end of a Mind Palace corridor. And silence

 _Defeat. Yes. NO! Possibly. Need to take that into consideration. Seek an escape route. Plan B. Or is it C now?_

"Ask me. Why am I smiling?" Magnussen was insistent now. Determined to force an answer. Already knowing what his reply to that would be. Anticipating victory.

Sherlock looked away from those pale shark's eyes, turned deep inside his own head. Distressed, withdrawn, stubbornly silent. John shot him a look, read in that impassive face what only he could read. And hated what he saw there.

Took over the conversation because he could and must.

"Why are you smiling?" he asked, words forced between thinned lips

"Because," Magnussen began, unable to stop the smile starting, spreading over his face, transforming his features into something more frightful than joyful. "Sherlock Holmes has made one enormous mistake which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves, and everything he hold dear."

Magussen stood, straightened his jacket with a controlled sort of elegance, and drew himself up to his full height. Taller than John Watson. Taller, older, wiser, than Sherlock Holmes. And he knew it.

"Let me show you Appledore's vaults." The voice was a silky invitation, full of promise. A laugh threatened to break out, but was controlled.

He strode across the mezzanine. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson exchanged a worried glance, but did not speak. Followed where they were led. Having no choice or awareness of what Magnussen was about to show them, what he may choose to reveal.

 _Keep to the plan. Demand Mary Watson's paperwork, her secrets, her photographs. Her past and her guilt and her present. All to give her a future. To remove her from your power._

 _Give her to me, Charles - you promised._

 _Hang on. There were the words of his brother, Pedder: Pedder saying how Charles would destroy people by letting them believe he could be decent and honourable, like them, like the rest of the world, when he was not. 'Like a cat with a mouse, when you have been in his clutches he never lets go. And you never survive him. Not whole, anyway.'_

"The entrance to my vaults," Charles said, approaching wide double doors of burr walnut, confident, not looking back to check he was being followed. "This is where I keep you all."

He paused, waited for them to catch up, Waited for the pleasure of watching them waiting for him, for his revelations. His happy news.

He bent forward, grasped the door handles, threw the doors open with a flourish but then kept them in his hands rather than allow them to fall fully open.

With Holmes and Watson either side of him, peering in. Not knowing what he knew. There was a small secret smile of power they could not see standing behind him as they were. They looked inside and saw a plain and empty white box of a room, an anonymous storage space.

Empty but for a single Bauhaus leather chair, a smaller yet close relation in design and colour to Sherlock's very own armchair back at Baker Street.

There were no desks or files or photographs. There was a totality of nothing. Magnussen entered the tiny room, approached the chair, turned round to face them and sat down. He beamed back at them then. Totally and completely in control, leaving Holmes and Watson puzzled, off guard and wrong footed.

John Watson risked a sideways glance at Sherlock Holmes, who was standing immobile, blank and silent. Head down, hands slack by his sides, shrunken and empty somehow. Watson squared his shoulders and took over again.

Well, he thought. It was his turn to take a role in protecting and saving his wife. Take over from Sherlock while he got his breath back. Gathered his courage, Or something It had better be something…..

"OK," he asked briskly. "Where are the vaults then?"

"Vaults?" Magnussen asked, pretending puzzlement, pretending to reflect their puzzlement and return it to them. He was, John Watson realised, enjoying himself. Tantalising them, teasing. Playing. A cat with mice. "What vaults?" He paused for dramatic effect, and John Watson wondered briefly how long it would take him to throttle the life out of this superior arrogant bastard?

"There are no vaults in this building," he declared with an amused finality. "They are all in here."

He pointed to his own head. Regarded them with a patronising mixture of victory and pity.

"The Appledore Vaults are my Mind Palace," he stated as if that was the most logical - and the most obvious - thing in the world

Sherlock Holmes was beginning to understand. Made a small involuntary movement in pain of reaction.

 _Magnussen's words, True. Oh, so very true. What did he say just now? Exactly?_

' _Sherlock Holmes has made one enormous mistake which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves and everything he holds dear.'_

 _Quite so. Oh, God. What. Have. I. Done?_

"You know about Mind Palaces, don't you Sherlock? How to store information so you never forget it? By picturing it. I just sit here. I close my eyes…...and down I go to my vaults."

Magnussen demonstrated. Had the confidence to zone them both out. He concentrated, put his fingertips to his head, then grasped the arms of the chair, rocked in the chair a little.

"I can go anywhere in my vault, my memories…..where shall I go today? Oh I know. I shall look in the files of Mrs Watson."

His voice was playful, the smirk on his face showing a man totally in control, both of the situation and those around him.

With slow deliberation he mimed opening a drawer, taking material out, sorting through pages and folders.

"This is one of my favourites. It is so exciting. All those wet jobs for the CIA. Oh, she's gone a bit freelance now. Bad girl."

The dumb show was of sorting files, reading paperwork, holding and disgarding photographs and papers. Indicating that the Mary Watson file was full and laden with

revealing material.

"Oh, she's so wicked," he declared with something like delight and huge amusement.. "I can really see why you like her." He looked up, his demonstration having served it's purpose. "You see?" He added.

And they did see.

"There aren't any documents?" John Watson asked the obvious, the dangerous, question. "You don't actually have anything here at all?"

Magnussen looked at him with disdainful eyes.

"Oh, sometimes I send out for something, if I really need it. But mostly I just remember it all," he added with a little laugh of false modesty.

"I don't understand," John Watson doggedly persisted..

"You should have that on a t shirt," Magussen advised.

"You just remember it all?"

"Every last detail," he agreed with pride showing. "Its all about knowledge Everything is," he explained with slow patience. "Knowing is owning."

"But if you just know it, you don't have proof," John Watson persisted.

"Proof? What would I need proof for? I am in news, you moron."

Sharp now, out of patience and tolerance of the little man with the murderous wife. Intolerance, mockery. He stood and faced them, brisk now, very much the decisive newspaperman.

"Speaking of news, you'll both be heavily featured tomorrow. Trying to sell state secrets to me."

Covert filming then. CCTV. Audio recording. Safeguards and entrapment. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson avoided each other's eyes. They both already knew what defeat and despair looked like. They did not need to see it in each other's faces yet again.

"Let's go outside," Magnussen was brisk. "They'll be here shortly. I can't wait to see you arrested."

He went out of the house grinning. Far from magnanimous in victory. Not looking back, certain yet again that they would follow. Knowing they had no option but to follow his lead.

In the half light of evening John Watson looked across to Sherlock Holmes. A man who did not see that movement. A man who looked lost, winded, defeated. As if dying, if not already dead, Brain and body switched off, zoned out, disconnected from life and it's immediate horrors. Hands hanging empty and powerless.

"Sherlock?" John Watson leant in, tried to dip low enough to enter the consulting detective's line of sight despite the head and eyes now so low. "Have we got a plan?," he asked briskly, hoping to kick the brains of the outfit into action. "Sherlock?"

No look, no response, no reply. Just a stricken, human face John Watson could not bear to see. Knowing his wife had caused this, has put them all through the mill and brought Sherlock Holmes to the point of destruction as well as death.

Impatient with everything, not least himself, John Watson turned and marched away from his best friend to follow Magnussen.

Sherlock Holmes barely registered John Watson's words, his presence or his absence. Stood frozen to the spot. Shell shocked and in utter despair. He had got everything so wrong. So very wrong. And after so long. What had happened?

Magnussen had said his secrets lay in the vaults of Appledore. He had said so in interviews, proudly, in printed words in newspaper and magazine interviews. Lady Smallwood had said the same.

Janine Hawkins - his personal assistant, the one person in the world close to Magnusson - had said so. She had confided in Sherlock Holmes as she had fallen in love with him, swayed by his attention and the charisma he created. She had believed vaults at Appledore held all Magnussen's secrets; because he repeatedly told her so, and that he would also return for a visit to Appledore laden with material. Or was she - and everyone else - meant to be fooled into believing that?

Yet he had obtained the architect's drawings of the house. Cellars - vaults, underground rooms, whatever you wanted to call them - were actually marked on the blueprints as existing. The very lie of the land on which Appledore had been built lent itself to the existence of vaults.

No-one had ever seen these fabled vaults, but that was because Magnussen invited no visitors to his home. Witnesses could not see something at a place where they could not attend.

What if there were no vaults? Where would that place all Mary Watson's secrets? And everyone else's? Apart from in Magnussen's head?

But what if there really were vaults? What if Magnussen was lying?

How could he even find the truth - or the vaults - in this situation? With loyal Magnussen staff in place, and Mycroft's troops on the way, how would he gain time to search and discover, seek and find? Could he be right, even now?

However could he have been so wrong? Why had he believed what everyone else thought? What everyone else had told him? How and why had he been so flawed in his thinking, in his adventuring? In his risk taking?

And what was he to do now?

 _Think! Don't stand here like a jelly! Pull yourself together! Sort this out! You brought this to pass - now sort it! Because that's what you do! Well…..should do!_

On uncoordinated legs, mind racing, thoughts scattered, he turned and stumbled after John Watson. One blow is just a blow, he tried to tell himself firmly. Ride the blow. Losing a battle is not losing the war.

 _He who would valiant be, 'gainst all disaster…_

 _One here will constant be, come wind, come weather…._

 _Who so beset him round with dismal stories….do but themselves confound, his strength the more is…._

 _No foe shall stay his might, though he with giants fight….._

 _Hobgoblin nor foul fiend can daunt his spirit…._

 _I'll fear not what men say… I'll labour night and day…._

Shook his head, puts his shoulders back.

 _Damn that schooldays hymn that always cuts back in when times are hard! So much for John Bunyan and Percy Deamer, so much for the Slough of Despond and the Hill of Difficulty. More like being stranded in the Valley of Humiliation now._

He approached the huge curved glass door that lead onto the terrace, where he could see John Watson and Magnussen in conversation.

A blood red evening sky was falling, making shapes and shadows stark and surreal. It suited the mood.

Magnussen was looking out over the terrace, across the fields and woods, looking up into the sky. John Watson reluctantly joined him.

With the door still open, waiting for him to go through it, Sherlock could just hear their words.

"They are taking their time, aren't they?" Magnussen asked as if making a polite query about profiteroles at a summer evening's garden party, " Do you think they'll send a helicopter?"

"I still don't understand," John Watson interjected stubbornly.

"And there's the back of the T shirt." Magnussen was bored with John Watson now. Even his body language said 'a very inferior fellow.'

"You just know things." Watson was nothing if not doggedly determined. "How does that work?"

Magnussen turned to him then with an expression between a snarl and a smile. Lesser men would have stepped back, daunted. John Watson simply spread his weight, dug into his position.

The taller and older man almost hissed with annoyance. Decided it was time this irritating little person was put in his place. Turned fully to face John Watson and gave him all his attention.

"I love your little soldier face," he said with a smile. And in the same quiet conversational tones added: " I'd like to punch it. Bring it over here a minute."

John Watson, unsure whether to take this seriously - or what might happen if he didn't - glanced over at Sherlock, now emerging slowly from the house. They shared a look, which told John Watson nothing at all, and Sherlock Holmes nodded briefly. Do it, said that nod. Whatever needs to be done. Just do it.

"Come on," wheedled Magnussen, stepping closer. "For Mary. Bring me your face." Half a step closer, and reluctantly, John Watson shifted uneasily towards the taller dominating man.

"Lean forward a bit," ordered Magnussen, a happy grin seeming both incongruous and cruel, now. "Stick your face out."

John Watson gritted his teeth, looked uncomfortable, damped down an uncomfortable half smile of embarrassment, but complied. Gave a little tilt of his head as if to say: 'and now - what?' The answer was as unexpected as it seemed childish.

"Can I flick it?" asked Magnussen. "Can I flick your face?"

 _Hold on, John. Take it in your stride. Do not react. Stand fast. Not your normal military style anger - do not hit first, think second. Just hold it together. For Mary._

The request seemed juvenile, ridiculous. Irritating and impossibly demeaning.

John frowned, not understanding. No-one had ever wanted to do that to him before, even in playground games aged nine. Was this as childish a request as it seemed? Or was it calculated to be a humiliating exhibition of psychological domination? Yes, Magnussen truly was as creepy as Sherlock had always said.

Then Magnussen started to flick his fingers against Johns face, Staring, smiling. Humiliating. Standing too close, looking too deeply into John Watson's eyes. Inflicting little kicks of pain. Invading and dominating his personal space. And in some strange way attacking his masculinity, his strength of mind, and his very soul.

"I love doing this. I could do it all day," Magnussen smirking seemed more threatening than Magnussen scowling.

"It works like this, John."

Smile. Move. Flick.

 _Bastard. Shark. Predator, Bully._

"I know who Mary hurt and killed,"

Smile. Move. Flick.

 _And I should have killed you. Die, why don't you?_

"I know where to find people who hate her."

Smile. Move. Flick.

 _Leave her alone. Don't torment him!_

"I know where they live."

Flick.

 _And I know where you live. And work. And breathe._

"I know their phone numbers."

Smile. Flick.

 _And I know yours._

"All in my mind palace. All of it."

Flick.

 _All in my mind palace. All of it._

"I could phone them right now and tear your whole life down."

Smile. Flick.

 _As I will tear yours._

Speaking in that same light, vaguely amused voice throughout. Calm, casual, deadly.

"And I will." Smile. "Unless you let me flick your face."

 _Be calm, John._

Magnussen drew a breath, smiled even harder than before. Eyes full of mirth, and something more malignant than mischief.

John Watson steadied himself, Refused to flinch or grimace. To give in to the almost irresistible temptation to just punch the man standing in front of him. Self control was a close run thing. If Mary had not been involved….and her safety was tantamount…he would have risked it.

"This is what I do to people." The softness of tone did not negate the threat in the words or the body language. "This is what I do to whole countries," boastful now. Still smiling. "Just because… I know."

 _Don't you just? But so do I. And I will do anything. Anything. To win._

A whole philosophy, a complete state of mind, revealed on a dark and cold and windy Christmas Day evening. A heart of death and destruction. Just as Sherlock Holmes had always maintained, and John Watson had been unable to see until now.

Had never been able to see further than the pantomime villain melodramatics of urinating in the Baker Street fireplace. Had thought Sherlock's description of Magnussen as a shark and a predator had been the rantings of a drama queen with an unhealthy obsession.

He should have known better. Should have known - always known - that in the long run, playing the long game - Sherlock Holmes was always the only person to trust. His best friend. Had he been so blindsided by love and grief and anger and that all consuming bitter sense of betrayal that he had so determinedly refused to accept the love and loyalty of Sherlock Holmes?

In his peripheral vision, John Watson could see his best friend - always, and ever, his best friend, he realised - still standing beside the door. Motionless. Expressionless. Lifeless. Heartless. Less of absolutely anything else he could think of.

But the image was false. Sherlock Holmes' mind was racing.

 _What to do? What? And how? How to beat Magnussen, when safety for Mary and so many others was just a fingertip away. How to not fail? How to save everyone? And save myself?_

In that moment he was overcome by doubt. Helplessness. Fear and condemnation. Haunted by all the warnings, all the denials, all the doubts he had ignored to try and make this confrontation work, to bring this evil man down.

And really….all this…..all of this...for John Watson. For Mary. His wife. Mary. Hard to dislike, impossible to trust. Blonde hair, twinkling eyes, full of fun and love and laughter. Yet an assassin with a gun - a gun she had turned on him, as she had looked at him, spoken to him - and yet had still ruthlessly pulled the trigger.

He could not help admiring her, liking her. Almost admiring John Watson's taste and discernment in choosing her.

On Christmas Eve the parents had insisted on a game of charades after tea. Everyone finally gave up playing because, with good nature and even much rarer laughter, Sherlock and Mary won every game. Quick wits, clever thinking, good humour. Mary sat next to Sherlock on the sofa, laughed at him and hugged him, behaved as if she loved him and as if he was one of the kindest and most generous people in the world to her.

And perhaps he was - for forgiving her for shooting him, for trying so hard to bring her and John Watson back together again.

"Look at you two; you should have got married." John Watson had reflected bitterly during a traumatic evening in Baker Street; when Sherlock and Mary had proved that under duress their strength, courage and objectivity ran on parallel lines.

So what else could he do? What more, what else, could he have done differently for John and Mary? Stood back and allowed them both to be unhappy? Sulked about what he had lost? Refused to look ahead or move on? Punish them both for wanting something as simple and human as love and a future? No. He could not do that.

Less than 24 hours earlier Mary Watson had hugged him close, laughed into his face, smiled at him and told him he was wonderful. He didn't like such intimacy, but it was there for him. He did not frighten her or daunt her, she did not resent him for being a friend to her husband; or to herself.

Things could be worse; she could resent him, resent his influence on her husband. Stop their friendship dead. But she had not done that. She understood now where they all stood in a universe of three. So things could be worse. But they could also be very much better.

Better now. Right now. Except they were not.

He levered his head up a little. Magnussen was still tormenting John Watson. He could tell. Had always been able to read his friend like a book. And now John Watson was hurting. Humiliated. Fearful, in pain from such little pathways of damage, such little indignities, and he found it shaming. Stripped of all dignity. A decorated soldier and a war hero, being destroyed by something as puerile as flicks on his face.

And yet there was nothing he could do to stop it. Could not fight back. Could only endure.

 _I'm sorry, John. This is all my fault. I dragged you here. I shouldn't have. Should have done this on my own, like I do everything. But I did need you here with me today, protecting my back, being a second strong capable pair of hands. And I thought you would want to be a part of saving your wife. Not just leaving it to me. Because you would never forgive yourself - or me - for that. Now would you?_

Charles Augustus Magnussen raised a finger to John Watson's eye. And suddenly the whole thing got worse. More petty. More dangerous. More humiliating.

"Can I do your eye now? See if you can keep it open!"

 _Oh! For pity's…._

Another stupid, childish demand straight from the playground. John Watson looked puzzled, as if he did not believe the infantile level of threat to which Magnussen could go. Looked puzzled, understood, flinched. How important was an eye; how much taken for granted until threatened. An eye for an eye…..

Flick!

John Watson cried out, defensive, vision unexpectedly suddenly blurred in his left eye, cried out and fearful despite himself. Could not do it. Not any more.

"Come on," Magnussen encouraged, leaning closer. Smirking. Close enough for John Watson's fist to collapse his face. But there was someone more important than himself to consider. Mary. Their baby.

And also…..the person who had convulsed in pain, flinched as he had flinched when his eye was flicked How - _how -_ had he ever, ever thought the friendship and empathy between himself and Sherlock Holmes had ever lapsed, or died? He lambasted himself for being a fool. It made the torment from Magnussen easier to endure, somehow.

"For Mary," Magnussen purred, delighting in his discomfort, John Watson could see. "Keep it open." An order silkily spoken yet not to be denied.

Flinched again. Too much. Could not do it.

"Sherlock…." Could have been a cry for help, yet the one word came out as a softly spoken question, Because then perhaps Magnussen would not notice?

The body language said the younger man standing immobile on the sidelines was lost and defeated. Stunned and closed down.

 _John. I am so sorry. This is all my fault._

"Let him," it was a whisper of instruction, the voice almost unrecognisable, hollow and disgraced. "Sorry. Just let him do it."

John Watson saw his last chance of rescue or respite disappear. He did not reply. No longer looked at the person who had always been there for him. Always. His strength, his salvation, his strength of purpose and soul.

Until now. John Watson swallowed. Sherlock Holmes had failed him. He took a deep breath and braced himself. Prepared to die. In whatever form dying was going to take this time.

TO BE CONTINUED….…..

 **Author's Notes:**

Appledore is actually the £30 million Swinhay House, near Wooten-Under-Edge in Gloucestershire's South Cotswolds. It occupies 60 acres of a 230 acre estate and was designed by architect David Austin to be eco friendly. It covers 23,250 square feet over ten floors, and includes eight bedrooms, an eight car underground parking garage, squash court, bowling alley, cinema and a fully enclosed winter garden, which is featured in _Sherlock._

It was designed for, and is owned by, Sir David McMurty, head of precision engineering firm Renishaw. It has never been lived in as his wife Terry considers it 'too flashy.' However it is used for film and fashion shoots and charity events.

One story about filming _Sherlock_ there is that many of the crew ended up with cuts and plasters on their faces due to walking into the glass internal walls so often! As a private house it is not open to viewing or to the public.

Burr walnut: (burl in USA) is a growth on a walnut tree which deforms and outgrows the grain through injury, growth or fungus to make small dark markings in the wood like dots and speckles, which are caused by buds that do not fully form or mutate. Every tree affected this way is uniquely patterned.

GPS locator: GPS stands for Global Positioning System. It is an electronic device that is normally carried by a person or vehicle to determine a precise location revealed by satellite triangulation. UK law does not specifically address this technology, but offences can be construed from within existing legislation.

Wet jobs: covert assassinations by government agents. A term invented by the KGB and a direct translation of the words mokru delo. But most often applied to the CIA.

The hymn running through Sherlock's mind is _To Be A Pilgrim (_ aka _He Who Would Valiant Be)_ the only hymn written by the author of _Pilgrim's Progress,_ John Bunyan.

Bunyan wrote this novel of Christian allegory while in prison for holding religious meetings.

Sherlock combines both versions of the hymn to suit his mood and situation.


	37. Chapter 37

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 37:Do You Understand That We Will Never Be The Same Again….'

Sherlock Holmes raised his head slowly, his sharp hearing alerted before the others. Looked up and listened.

"Come on. Eyes open."

Magnussen was still cajoling John Watson into playing his little game of life and death. He took half a step back, and laughed openly. Looked across at Sherlock Holmes as if finally ready to include him in the silly game being played.

"It's difficult, isn't it?" he laughed openly this time, genuinely amused, both at his memories of past torment enjoyed and the current discomfort he was creating.

"Janine managed it once. She makes the funniest noises….."

He had included Sherlock Holmes in that jibe in a especial taunt; disparaging the former girlfriend to the former boyfriend, demonstrating knowledge of that link, boasting an additional power of leverage. But mainly knowledge. Always manipulating knowledge into pressure points.

 _You are a games player, Charles. But playing Janine….well, I was playing the girl as much as you. Just in different ways. Makes us both shits. Except you play to play and to subjugate. I play to learn and to win._

 _And yet you think I am weak to have cared for Janine. That your taunts about her will upset me, break me? Oh, Charles. You still have no idea who I am or what I will do._

 _Sexual intimacy with Janine. Sexual intimacy with you. Whatever it takes to win, whatever it takes - I will do. Just wait. Just see._

The heavy thrum of a helicopter carving it's way through air at speed was suddenly loud overhead. The scene was transfixed by a powerful spotlight. The light ripping apart the peaceful rural darkness to also reveal a UK Special Forces basic six man unit making their powerfully efficient way from around the other side of the house and the entrance drive. So those electric gates had been no barrier in the final analysis.

Dark standard utility uniforms, military helmets, ballistic vests, MP53A sub machine gun L91A1 variants as always used in hostage situations, raised and ready to fire.

Both former army captain John Watson, and walking encyclopaedia Sherlock Holmes recognised the weaponry and the calibre of the firepower as well as the strategic brains behind the military intervention immediately. The good guys galloping to the rescue.

But good for who? And who were they there to rescue? Who to take down?

 _About time! What kept you, Mycroft? No grab squad readied on black alert, then? You mean you called in the troops from a standing start? Ooh, I see. I really did think better of you. Unless you actually did drink that punch?_

Mycroft's voice boomed above them.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson! Step away from that man! Do it now!"

Mycroft as _Deus es machina?_ Even in the midst of horror _,_ Sherlock almost laughed at the very concept.

 _Idiot! Imbecile! You think I - we - will obey you, just because you speak, arch enemy of mine? Do you not think we know you too well? That blind obedience is not good for you? Or good for us for that matter? Tut tut, brother!_

There was the squawking of walkie talkies, voices declaring observations.

"Unarmed!"

"Confirmed. All targets appear unarmed!"

"Obbo confirms unarmed…."

Mycroft's words of command, spoken through an electronic loudhailer system from the helicopter, could have awoken half of the Cotswolds.

 _Shut up, Mycroft! The situation is down here. Not up in the sky. Not pie in the sky, not even in the sky with diamonds on the top. Just the problem John and I have down here. How to stop Magnussen. Stop him for good._

Neither John Watson nor Sherlock Holmes responded or moved, despite the instruction.

 _Go on, Mycroft, have another try. Makes you sound ever so powerful. But I'm not taking any notice, and it doesn't seem as if John is either. But I think Charles is impressed._

Too brave and bloody minded to care. Too used to defying Mycroft to do anything other. Instinctively reluctant to do as they were told. For they had their own agenda, their own end result in mind.

Which was neither military nor firepower, and nothing to do with bullying others into submission. But was all about secrets to be sought, retrieved and destroyed. Not this explosion of consequences. Anything but this.

Both men remained confident in their own minds that no-one would shoot them at this point. This was belt and braces military bluster. The theatrics of force. Typical Mycroft overkill, and a display of power and purpose mainly for Magnussen's benefit.

Charles Augustus Magnussen, cool and amused, crossed the terrace, totally relaxed and in control, moving away from his humiliation of John Watson - which had been mere amusement for a few idle moments while awaiting the arrival of the main attraction - and leant against the wall at the edge of the raised paving. To see better. To enjoy the entertainment of British security forces rushing to do nothing more than make fools of themselves and be sent away again.

 _Oh, Charles is amused now. He thinks he is in total control of the situation. How interesting. He takes on the British government, and UK Special Forces. And he still thinks he is running the show. Not even taking John and me into consideration now._

 _Pure egomania. One hundred percent foolhardy. Madness. A level of ego that would even impress other egomaniacs. No hope of change there. No future in it. Your problem, Charles. But mine to solve._

Forces summoned by Mycroft to demonstrate strength. Yet to be sent away by Magnussen. Forces taking away Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, under arrest for attempted treason. And for stealing, and attempting to sell, Mycroft Holmes' top secret laptop computer and it's highly sensitive contents. Oh, the irony!

The Christmas gift may have been planned for, created and bartered as an exchange - secrets of one sort in exchange for secrets of another. But the country's secrets were never on the table, never for sale - despite that planned and shocking CAM News exclusive with front page expose of the treachery of Sherlock Holmes.

The deal that had been agreed was to exchange secrets of government in exchange for the secrets of one individual. Magnussen had laughed at the very idea that one insignificant individual - and a woman at that - should have been considered worth the sacrifice. Any sacrifice at all.

But Sherlock Holmes has displayed untypical sentiment and emotional weakness to pledge that deal. Had appeared pathetically willing to make that sacrifice, and Magnussen, knowing he was on the winning side, has eagerly taken what he thought Sherlock saw as bait, but Magnussen knew was reward, and greedily foresaw all the advantages he could gain from that.

By losing all his personal and governmental secrets to Magnussen, Mycroft Holmes would be under his control now and forever, blackmailed and manipulated to save his reputation, his career and his power base.

Blackmailed to reveal secrets of the men and the machinery upon which the governance of the entire country revolved. A delicious expansion of influence, power and respect for a Danish businessman so often reviled by British society.

And all because the younger brother hated his elder and better. Sibling rivalry was often such a delicious and wonderful tool!

And then of course this control gave the tantalising addition of a true and very different personal power over the younger brother also - Sherlock Holmes. A power that foolish boy did not realise he was handing to Magnussen in his desire to score over his brother.

But this man was an exotic creature of such beauty and sensitivity, whose drive to defeat his brother and protect his friend's wife meant he had presented Magnussen with a gift that would see his own intelligence thwarted and mastered forever.

A fascinating young man of unknown and unspoken skills still to be discovered. And to have all to himself. Held in his hands in more ways than one until he was used up, spent, and finally rejected as obsolete when the novelty of possessing the beautiful boy waned. If it ever did.

Magnussen had his own private mileage to make of that victory, and by calling in Sherlock Holmes' deal, he had thereby called his bluff.

Victory was his, and he knew it. Revelled in it.

 _I can see you thinking, Charles, and what you are thinking. Enjoy those daydreams. Enjoy what you think is your triumph. Enjoy it while you can - your Christmas treat. It won't last. Not for one minute._

Magnussen experienced a moment of pure joy, stood and waved his arms expansively up towards the helicopter in the sky, across to the troops on the ground, grinning broadly.

"Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?" Mycroft's disembodied voice tried again to exert authority, sound commanding, but was now also on the edge of panic as neither his brother nor his friend took any notice of him, or the troops approaching them.

 _What am I doing, brother mine? I am gathering my strength and my resolve and my purpose. And I will win. Watch. Me. Win._

 _Or look away because you daren't watch. Driving a desk has made you soft, Mycroft. Soft when it comes to facing the realities of your decision making. When it all comes down to facing muck and bullets, spilling blood and bone._

Magnussen revelled in the very sight of what was happening. The drama, the melodrama, the sheer effort of it all - from the thrill of the helicopter and the noise, the soldiers and the bright spotlight. Revelled in the sight of a defeated Sherlock Holmes looking across at him, looking lost, and defeated, and with his reputation in tatters.

So Magnussen confidently turned his back to the light and the energy and the noise. Turned towards Sherlock with an amused and totally genuine smile.

Sherlock saw it all. Read his thoughts. Read his ambition and his greed and his ego as easily as if he was reading a book.

"Here we go, Mr Holmes!"

 _Go where, Charles? To hell? Yes. I will come with you, and shake hands with you there. We will travel together._

 _Jack Smallwood will be there. Ready to meet you and push you through. I can't get that image of him sitting dead on his bathroom floor out of my head. Dead because of you._

 _Nick Haig will be there too. Waiting to make sure you enter. He's been waiting there for you for a long time. The good and true professional who first heeded dark whispers about you. Who gathered his evidence, did his job like a true professional. And you killed him for it. Without hard proof, but because of whispers. Just whispers from a part of the press that was not yours. Was that what piqued you the most? That the only man who knew about you was not one of yours?_

 _And because you wanted his grieving widow under your thumb so you could use her to get to me? More misery because of you, Charles._

 _All your actions have spread ripples of anger and grief and terror. In the hearts of people who are intrinsically good, but who have made a silly mistake at some point in their lives. Like people do: that's the human situation._

 _But you made silly mistakes too, Charles. Just that no-one ruined your life and your career because of it. Ruining people because you know and because you can is no reason to, Charles. No reason at all. Making people suffer too much for the crime of being simply human and making human mistakes is simply inhuman. You are inhuman._

 _Inhuman because you feed and encourage other predators like Dean and Mark and Marie Dixon Carr. Lesser sharks like Eric Carlsson. Other allies, like you, too eager to prey on the weak and the innocent and the good._

 _On Fredrik Sondersun, shot in my house. Of your brothers, carrying the burden of your name. Of Ellie, a humane, life enhancing soul burdened by one youthful indiscretion. Piet Bruhl, alienating his elders. Ari carrying the weight of them all. Because of you._

 _Mycroft Holmes targeted as your greatest prize. Yes, I do know that. Targeted so that I had to hurt him to save him - and may have to hurt him again before this is over. My parents, innocents I had to drug to keep out of this and save, who will never trust me again because of this. Janine and Maggie and all the others you involved and beat into the ground on your way to the top._

 _John Watson, too. An innocent bystander who made the mistake of calling himself my friend and of falling in love. Who you have just humiliated horribly. Who should have remained innocent and happy, not dragged into his wife's lying but so understandable deceits. Lies lived to achieve nothing more than a husband, a baby - just ambition for a humdrum, and such an ordinary life._

 _And you trampled on all these people, Charles. You keep trampling. Because it is your nature. You are a predator. A hunter without pity or compassion. The scorpion from the fable. Killing his rescuer because it was the scorpion's nature, even though it also killed the scorpion, it's own nature it's very downfall. Magnussen's nature._

 _I must stop you. Elizabeth Smallwood said no-one could stop you and no-one dared try. Except me, But you trampled on me, too, Charles._

 _Hurt and shamed and abased me. Tore down my reputation, damaged my friends, invaded me, body and soul. Took my body apart. Enjoyed violating me just because you could. And because you know I cannot bear to be touched._

 _But that does not influence what I am going to do. Not at all. However. What you have done to me demonstrates you will stop at nothing. That you have no compassion or humanity or emotion within you. You are not human._

 _And I know the bloody difference, Charles! Me of all people. Because I am always being accused of having no compassion or humanity or emotion._

 _I look at you, and I see and I feel every difference between us. And I know - if no-one else does - that I am not like that! But you are!_

Sherlock looked back at Magnussen, controlled that surge of anger, so all that showed on the surface was a gentle frown of thought. Nor the despair and horror Magnussen had been anticipating. Nor the rising fire powering his heart and brain.

"To clarify…" Sherlock shouted above the sound of the helicopter, the beat of the rotor blades and the whirlwind they were causing, whipping the trees, swirling late autumn leaves, pushing their hair back from their faces in a naked minimalist rictus of stretched skin over bone. No softness or disguise now. No pretence.

"The Appledore Vaults only exist in your mind? Nowhere else?"

Magnussen had more important things to consider now. Not the files of one ineffectual woman who had not dared to kill him when she had the chance.

Victory. Control. Acclaim. Expansion of influence and interest. Power. More power. Sherlock Holmes watched all those emotions and responses work their way across the thin pale face before him.

"They're not real," Magnussen shouted back, eyes and mind elsewhere, dismissive. Watching the helicopter, revelling in his joy at the anguish he could see now on Mycroft Holmes' normally impassive face. "They never have been."

The guileless truth of an insignificant answer when facing the pinnacle of power…..Sherlock Holmes heard that truth, heard the words. And recognised it.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson! Step away!"

Mycroft's voice again. Stronger now. Even more resolute.

 _No vaults. All this effort and pain and striving. And yet there are no vaults. No evidence to seek out and destroy._

 _So how to make everyone safe, now? How to save Mary from being exposed as an assassin? To save John from being destroyed by seeing his wife destroyed? To save the baby from being born in prison? Of losing a mother to prison from birth? Ripped away from it's mother? Even losing both parents?_

 _How to honour the memory of Jack Smallwood? And make things bearable for Elizabeth? To not let Magnussen destroy her life as he had destroyed her husband's? How to honour Nick Haig? Honour the work he had done to ultimately bring Magnussen down and make sure his death had not been in vain?_

 _How to make things better for Fredrick Sonderson - shot? Ellie Sonderson - stressed and regretful? Ari Sonderson - carrying the prospect of shame and careers ended for his entire family and himself? Including even his mother-in-law, who thought she was safe, and bombproof? And therefore clearly was not?_

 _How to give Piet Bruhl peace to be himself? And how to stop the security organisations they were all involved with not to be damaged and weakened by the upheaval Magnussen was plotting?_

 _How to lift the load from Magnussen's brothers? End the threat of destruction of Mycroft Holmes? And by that, the entire structure and security of the British government?_

 _How to stop the breaking of the wheel on which the entire Western world turned? Elizabeth Smallwood had said that - lifetimes ago - and he had not believed her then. He did now. For now he knew the influence and fear Magnussen brought to bear on others - through the force of his personality, the efforts of his staff, through the millions influenced by his world wide web of newspapers, radio and television stations and a complete hand across all media outlets._

 _All pervading malicious influence from a man who wanted to run the western world by stealth. An egomaniac. Inches from madness. A man without care or compassion for others. Driven by the demand for power and influence. A man already with the ear of the British Prime Minister. From that power base, who and what could he not destroy?_

 _Lady Smallwood had said no-one could stop Magnussen, and no-one would dare. She had come to him and he had tried his best. Got dragged down and damaged in the process._

 _Yet there was still only him - Sherlock Holmes - to stand against Magnussen and defeat him. Urged on by an unbanked cheque, a memory stick file, a tracking device torn from under his skin and a roaring fire of anger inside him that had grown higher and brighter as time went on._

 _Janine flicked and sacked: the Dixon Carrs encouraged in their villainy and their cruelty; Fredrick shot; the Smallwoods destroyed._

" _He preys on people who are different."_

 _He had told Mycroft that. Earlier that day. It already seemed lifetimes - not hours - ago. But what made Magnussen's victims different? Intelligence? Authority? Common decency? Basic humanity?_

 _Were these basic truths the things he had to defend, then? The simplest tenets of life? And was all that weight on his shoulders alone?_

He raised his head and took control of the shaking that had momentarily possessed him. He stepped forward, back under control. Resolute now.

 _Had discussed this with Piet Bruhl, aeons ago. Always had considered the possibility as the solution._

 _Can you kill a man who is not human? How can you nullify a man with a perfect memory who forgets nothing? How can a man unlearn what he knows, even if he should want to forget? When the brain is not a fallible thing of grey matter and memory, but a thing of photographs and perfect focus, that forgets nothing?_

 _Like my brain. Carrying that burden of too much knowledge, too much information, an inability to forget. A gift or a curse? Or both at once?_

Magnussen laughed up at the helicopter. Windmilled his hands.

"It's fine!" he called into the air, his voice unusually light and amused, positively bubbling with victory. "They're harmless!"

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes - harmless? They looked briefly at each other, shoulder to shoulder now in the fray.

Sherlock Holmes sucked down a deep breath. Harmless? Could he afford to be harmless? Would harmless achieve anything now? Now, when every thought and sound and movement counted for so much?

Watson was transfixed by it, all his attention on Magnussen, the slow train crash of what was unfolding now before his eyes… knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it or change it.

"What do we do, Sherlock?" he asked. A controlled desperation to his voice, yet ever the tough soldier with his back to the wall. "What do we do?"

Sherlock Holmes was looking at him. An expression on his face his best friend could not even begin to read. Did not speak, nor even shake his head.

 _That kind, honest, earnest face, John Watson. Pained and perplexed. Risking his life._

 _His wife's life. Both their futures. The future of their unborn child. Just because Charles Augustus Magnussen is a psychopath and a bully._

 _What must I do for you, John Watson? And for you, Mary Watson, to free you of this tyranny, this burden? Because it all comes down to me._

 _I made a vow. And I will keep it. I was contracted by Elizabeth Smallwood to stop Magnussen, and I will stop him. Paid off or not. Jack alive or not. I keep my word, as always._

"Nothing."

Charles Augustus Magnussen heard John Watson's words and was thrilled to hear them. Words of defeat - and from a military man, too! He grinned.

"There is nothing to be done," he assured them. "I am not a villain. I am a businessman, acquiring assets. And you happen to be one of them, that's all."

He looked hard at John Watson, saw his fears and indecision. Defeated. Compliant. Hardly worth the contest. A mere player.

So he moved his eyes to the right, looked at Sherlock Holmes instead. The face was pale, those boyish curls whipping around his face at the helicopter rotor blades tore through the air at Appledore.

But that unreadable face did not appear defeated. Deep in thought, watchful, serious. Concentrating on something that was far away from the tumult going on around him. Ignoring the disorientating noise and the firepower pointing at him, the voice of his brother. The scorn of the businessman.

 _I owe you my life, John Watson. You killed for me before you even knew me. You saved me from….much. I can only return the favour. No decision to be made. No decision at all._

"Sorry!" Magnussen called out, enjoying what he saw - that beautiful face empty in defeat, and his voice was now irresistibly full of mocking sympathy. "No chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr Holmes!"

 _Emptying a filing cabinet, that's all it is. Throwing stuff on a bonfire to be consumed by flames. Flinging a memory stick onto the back of a fire to crackle and melt and burn. Folders of secrets to be shredded - destroyed to never be seen again. As if they never existed. Never used for blackmail._

 _Things we will lose in the flames. Villainy under a bonfire and burning the way John Watson had been._

 _Secrets and lies. Truths and levers. Evidence and incriminations. Destroy the filing cabinet, destroy the file. Destroy the contents of the file. All the same thing._

 _I must do something. Do it. Do the thing. Cannot let Magnussen get to Mycroft when the helicopter lands; he will take advantage, use CCTV photographs to prove a connection that supports his blackmail. He will publish those treason accusations against John and I. And if John is investigated Mary's secret and highly murderous past will be revealed, and she will be imprisoned._

 _Torn from her husband. Their baby bearing the stigma of being born in prison. Growing up without one parent - or both. More lives ruined because of my failure if I don't…._

 _Magnussen's control of Mycroft will stretch to include Elizabeth. To Ari and Piet and Fredrick. And the whole bloody mess will start again. Just like he tried to start his blackmail against Jack Smallwood again._

 _Because Magnussen never lets well alone. And his possibilities are destructive and crippling._

 _I am out of alternatives. I must do this. No-one else to do this. To master so much misery. This is not theory. This is doing. Objective judgement. Not revenge. Not personal. The greater good. Dear lord. I always knew it would come to this, didn't I?_

 _No foe shall stay his might, though he with giants fight…_

For Magnussen, laughter was on the brink of breaking through. But if he started laughing about this huge win he had achieved he might never stop…..so he smiled his victory at Sherlock Holmes instead.

"Oh! Do your research!"

The sudden strong baritone was hard, scathing, resolute.

 _Who will miss me anyway? Who will care? What is oblivion anyway, but cessation of pain? Who else is perfectly placed to do this? Who else has the resolve, the understanding, the detachment? John Watson? Mycroft? These SAS boys? No. Just me._

 _My responsibility. My desserts. May my wrongs create no trouble. No trouble. Remember me, but forget my fate…_

 _My need for oblivion._

 _Anger dead. Pain gone. Rest, finally_.

 _Fortunate to be surrounded by top marksmen who will react on instinct. Clean, quick, professional. I've done the painful lingering in a hospital bed option. Don't recommend. Never doing that again. So - yes. This. Best and only way. Minimal collateral damage. Tidy and efficient for everyone. Even me. Yes. This._

John Watson had his eyes fixed on Magnussen, but Magnussen had his eyes on Sherlock Holmes. Who took two quick firm steps to the side and behind his friend. For protection? Comfort? Alliance?

He stepped close into John for a moment, reached around him. Dipped a hand to take something from John Watson's pocket. John Watson was too absorbed to notice that dip and lift from such a skilled pickpocket as Sherlock Holmes, and Charles Augustus Magnussen was blindsided by position and darkness, and did not even realise anything of importance had just happened.

Sherlock Holmes stepped forward again, drew a breath and planted himself as he had been taught, and was now second nature. Feet at shoulder width, legs braced, drawing himself erect.

 _Destroy the filing cabinet. Destroy it's contents. Only one way to do that. Burn it. Burn it down. Melt the contents and turn them to ash. Never to be seen again. Never to be used to destroy and damage._

 _I will burn the heart out of you…_

"I'm not a hero," he denied. Yet there was the strength and power of a hero in his voice, in his stance. Not guilt of admission, and certainly not defeat. A voice raised to sound clear against the beat of the helicopter, words perfectly enunciated so they would be understood. "I'm a high functioning sociopath."

 _Sorry, John, I must do this. The only thing. The only way. Brace yourself. Then walk free. You and Mary._

John Watson was beginning to turn his head, alerted by the incongruous words Moved just in time to see Sherlock Holmes make a clean, super fast, almost casual lift of his right hand with something dark and lethal in it as he put the barrel of John Watson's pilfered handgun to Charles Augustus Magnussen's forehead.

"Merry Christmas!"

The shout was determined, bitter - yet totally resolute. Magnussen was still relaxed, hands in pockets, smiling with a lazy arrogance.

The Sig Sauer barked a single shot and Magnusson - still smiling his way to eternity - was flung backwards like a rag doll, limbs anyhow, flung down onto the terrace, and dropped like a stone.

 _Oh, Jesus. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death….._

 _Things we lost in the flames._

Even before the Danish businessman hit the ground, Sherlock Holmes had already flung the gun away from himself, and turned to face forwards, hands raised in the air in submission, face impassive. Braced for impact and end.

Walkie talkie sounds, adrenalin fuelled shouts, guns brought to bear. Hesitation on taking reactive action without command.

"Man down!"

"Copy! Man down!"

Words, maxims, rules from his childhood training ran through his mind: George Bradshaw would be proud of his pupil when he found out what he had done.

' _Speed is fine, but accuracy is final.' So shoot at point blank range. Done that._

' _A good shot has legitimate personal confidence in his own ability. And his decision making." Yes, done that, too._

' _It's not always being fast or accurate that counts. It's being willing. Most men aren't willing. They blink an eye or take a breath before they pull the trigger. I won't.' He could remember George Bradshaw telling him that, so many years ago, He had never forgotten. Had never been more willing. So done that, yes._

' _Good shooting comes down to three things. Bullet placement, bullet placement and bullet placement.' Yes; placed the single bullet perfectly. Done that._

' _Guns are dangerous, Sherlock. You must always be careful around them.'_

 _Never more so, George. That, and knowing what to expect next from other guns in the plural._

A blaze of laser gunsights instantly pinpointed themselves onto his head and centre mass and he looked emotionlessly down at them, registering them somewhere in his brain as the last thing he would ever see.

The roar of the helicopter's engines began to quieten as the helicopter landed .

 _Anticlimax. Not expected that. How odd._

John Watson raised his hands, shocked, appalled and terrified.

 _Done it. Now me. Finish it!_

"Get back from me, John. Stay right back."

The same resolute voice. The same detached and determined expression.

The SF team swarmed closer.

Expecting to be shot in an immediate, reactive response, braced for it, Sherlock Holmes stood alone within a shaft of blinding light and awaited his execution. Calm and accepting of his fate. Welcoming it.

 _Get on with it, chaps. He who hesitates is lost!_

"Sherlock!" was all John Watson could breathe. He felt as if he had been kicked in the head by a horse. He was certain he would faint. He had seen death before, and often. But on battlefields. He had killed, himself, in the heat of battle. And to save Sherlock Holmes. But this was - something else. A killing in cold blood.

Mycroft's voice through the loudspeaker held anger, the snap of command, an edge of panic.

"Stay fast! Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes! Do not fire!"

"Oh, Christ, Sherlock!" As if the thought had never crossed John Watson's mind until this instant, the thought that Sherlock might be shot dead in reaction, that he might have even been offering himself for that fate. And what that meant.

It was all he could say. He could feel pain between his eyes, his mouth dropped open. He could not feel his feet.

Sherlock Holmes turned towards him a little, just enough to see his friend's face. The light from the helicopter searchlight made him look as if there as a halo behind him. The billowing coat, the swirling scarf, the tall and erect stance, all made him look aloof and Byronic. Mad, bad and dangerous to know. Well, don't we all know that, John Watson reflected? Ain't that the truth?

"GIve my love to Mary," Sherlock Holmes called above the hubbub. "Tell her she's safe now."

John Watson heard the words, reacted with a mixture of anger, relief and pain. Decided in one flash of insight that nothing was worth this cold blooded sacrifice from Sherlock Holmes. Not even Mary….

He remembered his midnight visitor, his strange talk of sacrifice. A black mood, he had said. Just a game. And happy Christmas. John Watson could have kicked himself.

He should have realised. Why did he not realise Sherlock Holmes' intent? When he had told him as much.

"I need to know Mary is worth the sacrifice." That was what he had said. And John Watson had not understood. He understood now.

"Oh, Sherlock. What have you done?"

Whispered words of regret came to them softly through the loudspeaker system of the helicopter before Mycroft Holmes realised he had not switched off the microphone; realised he had revealed he had a heart.

 _Done what I had to do, Mycroft. What no-on else would do or dare do. So I had to. Save so many people. Me? So what the hell about me? Been in hell. Why return but for this?_

John Watson heard the words and felt his soul shrink within him. But Sherlock Holmes reacted not at all.

Until he blinked. There was a glitter on his eyelashes, on his lids. An impassive face, yet with tears in his eyes. Suddenly, ignoring the laser light on him and the raised sub machine guns trained on him, he lifted his head defiantly to look at his brother as the British Government stepped from the helicopter and began to walk towards him.

Sherlock Holmes bowed his head then, and John Watson now saw an expression of horror that was hidden from everyone else. Horror at facing his brother? At the realisation he had killed Magnussen? The anti climax of not having been shot in automatic military reaction? Yes, that was it. The horror of anticlimax, of realising no-one was going to shoot him, that somehow the moment had passed. Because if they were going to shoot, they would surely have done so by now?

Without changing his position, hands still to his head in submission, Sherlock Holmes fell slowly to his knees in a controlled collapse that might have been a silent act of submission or even mere human weakness and reaction to it.

John Watson automatically started to move toward him, but was held on the spot by one sharp, sideways glance. Denying him that need to protect and comfort. Choosing to be implacable and alone. As always.

As ever, when anyone else in the world would have needed and welcomed support, and when anyone in his world would have been happy to give it, Sherlock Holmes turned away from it and rejected it. Comfort, kindness, the most basic humanity.

What had been Charles Augustus Magnussen lay still and cold on the stone. And no-one took the slightest bit of notice. All concentration on the tall man kneeling quiet and so still at the top of the terrace steps, the knees of the expensive suit he wore getting wet, cold and unheeded.

Two squaddies approached warily, slowly mounting the steps, guns ready. One reached forward to push Sherlock down onto his face, while the other moved to the side to haul his hands behind him and apply handcuffs. Standard procedure.

But a single word from Mycroft Holmes stilled them.

Mycroft Holmes, unnaturally erect, walked slowly across the grass as if he did not know where he was putting his feet. Up three of the terrace steps. Halted at the point where he put himself at eye level with his brother kneeling at the top.

"You could have been shot."

The flat repressed anger in the words was pure pain. Only now could John Watson flinch in sympathy.

"Had hoped….."

The voice was deathly calm, so quiet it would not carry, a lift at the end in query.

"Do it now. Tidier for you. Less paperwork. I won't tell anyone if you don't." There was the quirk of a tiny smile, then: ridiculous from someone demanding death.

Mycroft Holmes' face twisted in response. But there were no words.

"Blame all of this - blame anything - everything - on your insane little brother. Who will trouble you no more. If you do it now." Instead of rising into emotion and pain in reaction, the voice speaking became softer, and quieter, even gentle. The rise was not in pitch, but in intensity. "If you love me; do it Mycroft!"

Mycroft Holmes stood and looked at his brother, impassive and silent, for a full ten seconds. As the rest of the world waited. He turned and started to walk away, back down the steps, clicking his fingers in command.

The bright spotlight that had bathed the scene in starkness went out. There was stillness and silence.

"Do it, you bastard! Order it now! For me!"

John Watson had never heard Sherlock Holmes scream a demand or reveal such impotent anger before. He involuntarily started forward again, but was held back by one of the squaddies. The movement attracted Mycroft's attention.

Who turned back to them and offered the same blank manic smile Watson had seen on Sherlock's face too many times before. Concentrated on John Watson alone. Ignored his brother.

"Oh, hello John. Need to take you in too, for debriefing. You know the procedure. Boring essentials. Nothing personal, you understand."

"But Sherlock….?"

"Not your burden any longer, Dr Watson. But thank you for asking. Put him out of your mind."

From the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock Holmes' slump at the words, drop his head, finally defeated. Watson was just looking from one brother to the other when he heard the glass door into Appledore creak on it's hinges behind him. Heard the sound of light running feet.

Was spinning to face and deflect what instinct screamed at him was threat - urgent, dangerous threat, here and now - when a man of medium height with a silver pony tail raced past him across the terrace, brandishing a chair over his head. It should have looked comical.

Watson yelped out a warning. As he did so the squaddies began to spin too, bringing their weapons to bear while Charles Augustus Magnussen's personal assistant rushed Sherlock Holmes - still kneeling with his back exposed and in direct line to the door - with murder in his heart and intent on using the first weapon that came to hand.

"You killed him, you bastard!"

Sherlock Holmes, hands still raised in submission, half turned on his knees to face the onrush, but was incapable of defending himself in that position, and Eric Carlsson slammed the heavy aluminium and leather upholstered chair into his head with appalling force.

There was a distinct crunch, but whether that was the weight of the blow, or the sound of Sherlock's head bouncing on the stone pavers, John Watson was never sure afterwards.

All he knew for certain was that in the fastest of automatic reflexes two sub machine guns had aimed and fired as one, and Carlsson was down and dead in mid stride, his body cannoning down on top of Sherlock Holmes and his blood splatter spraying and reaching as far as Mycroft Holmes' elegant Savile Row suit and his face.

Mycroft froze and resisted a natural temptation to automatically wipe the bright arterial blood from him. For a moment he paused and simply looked at the scene he commanded. A melodramatic theatrical scene certainly, but one from which no-one would rise to their feet and take their bows.

Looked across at John Watson, grey with shock, aghast and face crumpled. The two silent and impassive squaddies with a trickle of fire still dribbling from the muzzles of their MP5A3's.

At Charles Augustus Magnussen lying dead, a little smile still there, face quiet and calm and very pale except for the dark hole drilled through his forehead, a much smaller entry wound than might have been expected.

A wash of dark viscous liquid framed that elegant aquiline head. His stylish dining chair lay disgarded on the slabs as did John Watson's Sig Sauer pistol. The personal assistant was a grotesque tumbled shape stopped instantly when in full flow.

Whilst all that could be seen of Sherlock Holmes were the soles of his long upturned feet in black Lobb Oxfords, the fanned our coat, a single gloved hand outflung and protruding from beneath Carlsson's body.

Parts of the tableau moved after three seconds of observation and assessment.

"Thank you for your input, gentlemen. If we could just check whether the perpetrator at the bottom of this heap is alive or dead….?"

The order was so delicately and calmly couched John Watson had half a mind to throttle this man who could be so unmoved by the sight of death, part of which could actually be his own little brother.

One of the squaddies took three steps forward and obediently dragged the dead thing off Sherlock Holmes' prone body and pushed it away. Turned it dismissively to one side. Put a hand to the pulse point on the side of Sherlock Holmes' neck. For several seconds Watson was sure the world stopped turning.

"Still breathing, sir. Just out cold."

As the squaddie turned the head a mottled graze could be seen across the right side of Sherlock Holmes' face that had not been there before it struck the paving of the terrace. A face as pale and still as a mannequin's.

Mycroft nodded and murmured a polite thank you to the soldier. Finally ran his eyes across Sherlock as if looking at a stranger. Looked down at the bloody things that had been Charles Augustus Magnussen and Eric Carlsson. Finally looked up at John Watson and their eyes met.

"You can react to this, Mycroft. It won't hurt you. Just prove you are human after all." There was no way John Watson could put enough venom or horror into his voice,

"Thank you for your assistance, John," Mycroft intoned with deliberate neutrality. "Give my best wishes to Mrs Watson. Let her decide if she was worth all this."

The reptilian Mycroft smile tugged at his lips and John Watson struggled not to reach over and thump him.

"Oh! And happy Christmas. I doubt I shall see you again in this season to be oh, so very jolly. If you get a chance, before you return to your own home, please inform the parents Sherlock and I have been called away on urgent business on behalf of Her Majesty. I would be most grateful. They are quite used to such changes to our social plans, even at Christmas. There is no need to distress them."

Their eyes clashed, and John Watson was so stunned by the social niceties, he could not speak.

"Easiest, I think, in the circumstances. Don't you?"

"Mycroft, you are a complete…."

"…..Minor dignitary who has a murderer for a brother."

He flickered a signal with one hand and John Watson watched helplessly as the unconscious Sherlock Holmes was hoisted between the two soldiers and dragged towards the helicopter, shoulders slack, feet dragging, head lolling to one side.

His best friend could hardly bear to look.

TO BE CONTINUED…..

 **Author's Notes:**

Deus Es Machina: From the Latin, from a devise in Greek tragedy which translates as 'God in The Machine.' Describes a plot device whereby the solution to a problem arrives out of thin air (heaven) to surprise the audience, solve a plot problem, provide comedy, introduce a new character or bring about a happy ending.

UKSF: United Kingdom Special Forces is a Ministry Of Defence directorate that brings together a number of UK special forces such as the SAS and SBS. Formed in 1987, the UKSF addresses a variety of special tasks, from hostage rescue, technical backup, close protection and counter terrorism.

Hostage release is a speciality of the SAS (Special Air Service) so although this is never clarified in the HLV script, this would be the natural assumption. Such units are often incorrectly referred to as a SWAT team, SWAT (Special Weapons And Tactics) is a uniquely American term and is of police, not military origin and operation.

The sub machine gun most used by the UKSF units is the MP5A3 and several of it's many variants, which differ due to intent of function. The L91A1 model is favoured for hostage situations, being lighter, smaller and more versatile in application than the standard model.

Maxims running through Sherlock's head include _To Be A Pilgrim, Dido's Lament,_ and _Psalm 23._


	38. Chapter 38

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 38: ' 'The future's in our hands…'

The unit commander manhandled the body himself, and folded the long limbs into the rear seat of the helicopter before strapping it in; the only way to keep the flaccid parcel of bones upright and secure for transportation.

Mycroft simply could not go near the body of his brother, could barely even look at it. He rejected the offer of cable ties ("rather unsophisticated") handcuffs ("this is my brother; he is hardly likely to attack me even if he does wake up.") or a unit member to accompany; just in case. ("I think not. I think I can manage. Thank you.")

In answer to the comment "he took one hell of a whack; do you want me to bring the doctor over to take a look?" Mycroft was equally dismissive.

"Not a good idea. Things would become far too complicated."

In his peripheral vision he could see members of the SAS unit were having trouble keeping John Watson on the terrace and away from the helicopter and Sherlock. He pretended he could not hear Watson shouting and trying to attract his attention. He refused to be attracted.

"Secure the scene, Captain Newbold. An MI5 unit will be along shortly to take over. If you could contain Dr Watson until this happens I would be most grateful. But as a former military man himself, he should understand that he requires debriefing before he can be returned to his accommodation and family Christmas celebrations.

"Please ensure he does not start bothering me. I have enough on my plate at the moment."

Mycroft Holmes got into the helicopter and strapped himself in.

"Thank you," he remembered to say as the helicopter rotor blades started to turn, and they were away. From the air Appledore looked like a giant's toy, and the newly revealing blaze of lights from the house made the scene surreal. The last thing he saw as the helicopter wheeled away to head for London was John Watson waving his arms and clearly shouting.

He sighed and shook his head. Reflected that could have gone much better, but it could also have been much worse. Gave his brother a long backwards glance. Well, he had wanted - they had both wanted - to get out of the family Christmas celebrations. And now they had. But not like this would have been better.

Sherlock was still and silent. An unusual sight. The grazes on his face were drying now, his head lolling back and sideways against the head rest. But there were no other bruises or cuts, or any obvious damage visible from the blow that had knocked him out.

Just that painfully familiar, beautiful and enigmatic closed down face. As he watched, the eyelids began to flicker, the long hands started to twitch and move in reaction.

"Hush, Sherlock. You're safe now," he heard himself say automatically, and was grateful the pilot could not hear him sound so soft and subjective. But his brother seemed to hear him, for the nervous movements stopped.

Mycroft reached for his phone. He had many things to organise before the helicopter landed.

By the time Barclay's London Heliport at Battersea on the south bank of the Thames was reached, Mycroft had set many wheels in motion, and was able to sit back and simply reflect on what had happened for all of five minutes.

Sherlock was starting to come to the surface now; fidgeting, gently flailing his arms and fighting against the seatbelt keeping him in place. Eyes opening without focus and closing again, head moving from side to side.

There was a police van waiting to move him from the helicopter to secure accommodation, and a police constable and driver were walking up to the helicopter as it landed, ready to take over.

Mycroft was out of his seat as soon as given the signal, reaching into the rear for his brother, unclipping the securing seat belt, grasping his shoulders to stop him falling sideways and banging his head on the seat.

At that touch Sherlock Holmes reared up and backwards, recoiling away. His arms came up to protect his face, and a throttled scream turned into one chilling shouted word:

"Panic!"

"No, no, Sherlock, no need to panic, I'm….."

"NO!" the denial was a roar, and Mycroft reactively scrunched up his face against the sound.

His brother grasped his arms in a vicious, compelling grip. Those glass grey eyes bored into his, suddenly far too close.

"No! Panic!" He dragged in a huge shiver of a breath. "Listen to me! Panic! There are no vaults at Appledore. So there must be a panic in the penthouse!"

"Calm down, Sherlock. You're delirious. Concussed. Just relax, now…."

"Relax? Now? Why? Got to get this sorted before I am jailed. This is not finished yet."

He looked around wildly, saw the two police officers approaching.

"I'm running out of time. Listen to me - just listen." He tightened his grip and focussed. Looked his brother full in the face and frowned.

"There is blood on you. Are you hurt?"

"Of course not, you imbecile."

"Oh. Oh? Oh, good." It was as if he had been momentarily knocked out of gear. His voice lowered again with conviction and power.

"I had the architect's plans for Appledore; the vaults were there, clearly marked on the blueprints - big cellars. But clearly at the last minute these were converted to an underground garage. Practical, tidies vehicles out of the way, does not reveal who is there. Yes. Makes sense.

"But Magnussen could not just depend on his eidetic memory, like he said. He had to have stuff on his victims in practical, visible form. At some point he would always need proof - paperwork, photographs, whatever - to back his publish in his newspapers.

"Never enough to say 'just because I know' and 'who needs proof?' as often as he did. That was what fooled me, Mycroft. Do you see? At some point, at some place, he had to be able to produce hard, provable evidence to back up those stories, the leverage he was using for blackmail. You know the phrase 'one picture paints a thousand words'?"

The speed of delivery was increasing as he warmed to his theme.

"Like having Jack and Ellie's letters; that new photograph of Tom Hallett's. Those photographs of me. He couldn't keep everything important in a kitchen drawer, now could he?

"You only found my photos by chance because Magnussen was keeping them close at hand; to show me. To ogle whenever he wanted some titillation. But he could not keep everything in such a haphazard fashion. That was not his way."

He paused to catch his breath, to speak more calmly.

"Do you see? He had to have somewhere safe and secret for all this stuff I doubt even his editors knew about. Magnussen was very much a one man band. When he was showing off to John and me earlier, about Appledore's vaults not being real, he said when he wanted something he sent out for it. He wasn't talking about a Chinese takeaway. From somewhere else - not Appledore.

"I think, when he had the CAM News building constructed, he played with the plans just as he had at Appledore.

"Panic rooms are very trendy in executive buildings these days - it would be so simple to hide one in a huge penthouse like Magnussen's on the thirty second floor. That would be normal. But this is Magnussen.

"In a thirty two storey building it would be easy to steal a few inches off head height for each floor - especially with a huge cathedral-like atrium the CAM Building possesses. Then create a secret floor - either between his office floor and his penthouse, or above the penthouse. Not a mere panic room, but a secret room packed with secrets. A location probably only ever shared with Carlsson. The only man he truly trusted.

"Get those plans, Mycroft. Get a surveyor to check all the measurements. Look for a secret switch to a secret stop for that private elevator. Secret stairs, perhaps, or a secret door in the penthouse - behind the shower cabinet, through the back of a utility cupboard, a fitted wardrobe. Something! Anything!

"Find that, and you will find all Magnussen's secrets. Trust me. I know his mind! Let me go and….."

"No." Mycroft's voice was firm with finality. "I will buy your theory, Sherlock. And I will investigate. But you can have nothing to do with proving it out. Not now. Not any more."

"But I…."

"No. You are a murderer. These police officers are here to formally arrest you and to take you to prison. You will be charged with murder, incarcerated, and we shall then see where the wheels of justice take you from there."

"Mycroft! Stop being so bloody pompous!"

"This is not pompous, Sherlock. Nor scoring points. Or anything other than my function as an organ of government and justice. You are not above the law. You are not exempt from it either. You are a murderer, you fool. And even you cannot escape justice."

He pulled back and out of the helicopter cabin, turned away. And then turned back again.

"You have put yourself into an intolerable position. And you have put me into an even more intolerable position. You are a total idiot. There is no way back from this."

He did not want to hear what his brother had to say to that. Or to see his face.

So he simply walked away.

o0o0o0o

Yellow walls. Blue heavy duty plastic chair and desk. Thick blue plastic covered mattress and pillow on the hard, low, wall mounted bed. Shelf with five dog eared paperbacks - Grisham, Rankin, Fleming, Christie and a bible. Good News version, not the King James that would have been the version of choice. A small TV and DVD player alongside, an ancient music centre.

Two inch thick steel door. Private toilet cubicle, 24 hour CCTV surveillance.

A blue duvet was crumpled on the far corner of the bed. Under the duvet, wrapped tight in the duvet, a man in a yellow one piece garment. A tall slim man sitting up, straight backed and cross legged, body hard pressed into the corner of the wall. Naked arms out of the duvet with wrists loosely lodged on knees, eyes half closed, head down and expression unreadable.

" A police cell? Is that the best you can do?" The voice the man on the bed could hear just outside the door as it opened was both horrified and scathing.

"Paddington Green is….." came another voice, polite yet defensive.

Yes, yes, I know. Don't you think I would know, if no-one else did? The most secure bomb proof police station in London. But why not prison?"

"The thinking is that if they put him in prison he would be seen. Word would get out and reach the press. The whole thing would be exploded. And there would also be prison riots on a daily basis. Even with solitary confinement."

"The Howard League For Penal Reform says…."

" I do not give a toss, DI Lestrade. I am doing what I am told. And I am told everybody else is doing what they can in an impossible situation. And we also have to try to humour Mr Holmes as well. The other Mr Holmes, that is. So if you have any complaints refer them to him." A loud and frustrated sigh. "Give me strength!"

The reinforced door creaked and then slammed fully open.

"Twenty minutes," continued the voice of the duty sergeant. "And that's only because I am turning a blind eye for the sake of peace and quiet and your seniority. Got that?"

The soft thud of the door closing. Footsteps going away, others coming closer. Then silence.

"Well? Are you talking to me? Or sulking?"

"Go away. You're not supposed to be anywhere near me."

"Why? Everyone in the Met knows I know you, work with you. "

"Not any more you don't. Go away."

"Shut up. Need anything? Fags? A good lawyer?"

"Is that a joke?" The words were spat out with the usual flat derision.

"You're in a Ferguson suit," Lestrade observed, appalled and trying not to show it.. "Do they really think you are a suicide risk?"

"I am a killer. I tried to get Mycroft to shoot me in retaliation. Suicide is a natural assumption. "

"Why would you want to die?"

"I killed a man. A life for a life. It's called natural justice."

"Not in this case. Not to mention mitigating circumstances."

All Lestrade got for his pains was a disdainful glare. After an awkward silence he asked:

"That suit as uncomfortable as it looks?"

"Yes. And I don't have shoes either, because I can't be trusted with shoelaces."

"The idea of you hanging yourself in a cell is ridiculous. Do you want me to get your clothes back? For dignity at least."

The man under the duvet looked away and shrugged, indifferent.

"It hardly matters. They are trying to decide what to do with me. A 2am bullet in the back of the neck is the usual solution to this sort of problem."

"This isn't Russia. And you are Sherlock Holmes."

"You think that merits special treatment?"

"They are considering force feeding you, Applying for authority if you don't eat in another 48 hours. You want that? " Lestrade was on the verge of anger, despite being a policeman and knowing Sherlock Holmes was being treating scrupulously and by the book.

"They tell me you haven't had a drink or eaten anything in the four days since you've been here. That you don't read, or listen to the radio or watch TV. That you don't seem to sleep or to even move. Is that true?

"Yes, of course. What's the point?"

"Sherlock….."

"No, Lestrade. I did it. Guilty as charged, my lord. I killed Magnussen. In front of credible witnesses that included my brother. There's no way out of this. Nor should there be. "

"Have you seen your brother?"

"No. Why should he slum it and visit me? Far too compromising."

Then you don't know about this? At all?"

Lestrade took a newspaper out of the poacher's pocket inside his trench coat. Threw it onto Sherlock Holmes' knees without comment.

A quick glance across to the detective inspector, then he picked up the newspaper, turned it over.

The headline was inescapable.

 **Media Mogul in Christmas Day suicide pact.** A photograph of a smiling Magnussen at some white tie event. The strap line underneath read: **CAM and his PA in shooting suicide at his country retreat.**

He read the article -light on facts, heavy on conjecture - about the death of Charles Augusts Magnussen and his long time personal assistant, driver and confidant, fellow Dane Erik Carlsson, in silence. The inference was that the two men had been lovers, and killed each other in a lover's tiff - or tryst. He snorted, said nothing, and threw the newspaper onto the floor.

"Who dreamed up this fairy tale?"

"Who do you think?"

"I will kill him, too. I would never agree to this. And he knows it."

"He's trying to do his best for you and quietly clear up the mess," Lestrade tried to keep his words light, tried a grin, and Sherlock Holmes looked away and lifted a disillusioned shoulder in reply.

"It would not have been a mess if they had shot me. That would have been tidy, cleaner and quicker. I am guilty of murder. That should demand a show trial, being made an example of. Banged up; 25 to thirty years." He shook his head. "But this….this obscenity of a fairytale means that is not going to happen."

"Could you stop being so bloody cheerful about it?"

"Am I being cheerful? I thought I was making a logical projection."

"With you, it's hard to tell."

"What are you doing here anyway? Has Mycroft sent you to test the ground? See how I react?"

"Not a bit of it. But word filtered through you had shot Magnussen and were in custody. So I wanted to make sure you were OK."

"Absolutely top hole and tickety boo," Sherlock assured with a sneer.

"Sherlock. Stop it."

"Sorry, Lestrade. But I made the calculation and I made the decision. Knew I would be shot in retaliation for shooting. Worth it to rid the world of Magnussen, lift his pall from so many people. Including Mycroft, but don't tell my brother that - it might go to his head."

"You are just down because you've killed a man. That's normal. When you are thinking properly…"

"Lestrade, please leave. I don't need help. Just to be left alone until the powers that be decide how to punish me. Now it appears I am not to be charged with murder and pay the proper public price."

"John Watson wants to see you."

"Not a chance. I may not go to trial now - this news story version of the death shows that - but it doesn't mean I won't still pay the price. So I don't want anyone contaminated by being near me."

"That's not John's fault….."

"Nor his responsibility, either. I don't want to see him. Tell him that. I didn't want to see you, either. Leave me to stew."

"And what do you expect that to achieve?"

"Absolutely nothing. I am in limbo."

"If you need me - if I can do anything - get the custody sergeant to call me. Yeah?"

"Thank you."

The voice suddenly came out small, shaky; as if all the energy available had just drained away.

Lestrade banged on the door, and as it opened to release him out he gave a glance back to watch Sherlock Holmes disappear beneath the duvet and turn his face back to the wall.

o0o0o0o

The first he knew of his next visitor was having the same duvet pulled briskly down from over his head.

Mycroft Holmes.

His younger brother blinked against the harsh electric light blazing above his head. Early hours? Some time around 2am?

"What are you doing?" demanded a peevish voice.

"Absolutely nothing. You may have failed to notice I am in a high security prison cell, It limits one somewhat."

"Hmn." The explosion of noise in the throat that served as reply sounded angry.

"What have I done now?" He narrowly avoided making his question sound like a wail.

"Why are you wearing that ridiculous costume? You look like a badly folded bed quilt. Or a…." he struggled for description. "That disgusting breakfast concoction thing. A pop tart?"

The disdain in the voice was such that Sherlock Holmes actually laughed.

"It is called an anti suicide smock. And bloody uncomfortable it is too. If you must know."

Mycroft Holmes turned away. Rapped peremptorily on the two inch thick steel door with his umbrella and when it opened, without further comment, left the holding cell.

His brother - who was half asleep and convinced the visit had been some unpleasant dream or incarceration nightmare - pulled the duvet back over his head and settled down again with a groan.

To be disturbed yet again within five minutes.

"Here!"

Mycroft, already over burdened with umbrella, briefcase and computer bag, now balanced across his hands a pile of clothes with a pair of black Lobb Oxfords on top, and thrust the lot into his brother's hands.

"Get dressed. Get yourself out of that undignified…thing. There are limits. If you had been going to kill yourself I think you would have done it by now."

"Too kind."

The prisoner wobbled to his feet. Leant back against the wall to unhook the closures on the suit and drop his only garment to the floor.

"'Naked came I out of my mother's womb and naked will I return there. The Lord givest and the Lord takest away'," he quoted with a quietness beyond bitterness. "Or, in my case, Mycroft Holmes."

The brothers looked at each other. Mycroft Holmes struggled to keep his face expressionless at sight of the pale skeletal frame, the shiny-new puckered scar in the centre of the chest he had never been allowed to see before, the violent purple bruises on the shoulder, ribs and left arm that had taken the greatest impact from the aluminium and leather chair used so ferociously as a weapon.

He resisted the temptation to ask if it hurt. It would have been a stupid question, and he would have been told so in no uncertain terms.

"I did not put you in that outfit."

"You did not stop it either. You told the police I was suicidal, then left me here, semi conscious, and abandoned me like an unwanted parcel . Almost four days. Four days, Mycroft."

"Four days are nothing compared to eternity."

"I wanted eternity. I wanted oblivion. Must you spend your entire life thwarting me?"

"That is my function and my burden. You never know what is best for you, Sherlock. Death would have been too easy to achieve, and far from the best for you. You have more utility here."

"You've said that before."

"Because, regretfully, it is true." Mycroft Holmes looked his brother in the eye. "Why did you want to die? How could you ask me to order that, Sherlock? To even think I would stand back and let that happen?"

"It was the logical finish. Tidy. No backlash. I killed Magnussen as the only way to stop him. I killed him, therefore I should die too. Simple logic, isn't it? Even for you?"

He paused, but his brother did not rise to the bait, simply waited, and he knew he would have to explain. Began to slowly pull on his clothes as he did so: the clothes he had been wearing to Appedore.

"Experience showed Magnussen never let go of his victims. And he had to be stopped. But how? A man with an eidetic memory cannot be allowed to keep his dangerous, secret knowledge… but he will never forget it, and will always threaten to use it again.

"So how to remove memories - those dangerous, profitable memories - from a man with a perfect memory?"

"There are ways," Mycroft denied doggedly. "Drugs. Mind control techniques…."

"You have watched too many bad spy moves. Nothing works. Not really. Not for long. Memories always flood back….." he was thoughtful for a moment, and then continued.

"Clearly the only way to remove the danger of Magnussen was to annihilate the filing cabinet in his head. Which meant removing Magnussen's head. A clean kill. Dead and gone.

"Someone had to make that executive decision. And who but me? I knew only too well what he could and would do. Who he damaged and drove to their deaths A lot of people needed rid of Magnussen.

"So I exercised my own judgement, delivered my own verdict. Performed my own execution. Do or die. Or, rather, do and die. Make no mistake, brother. I would do it again."

He gave Mycroft Holmes a long assessing look. Slipped into his black Dolce and Gabbana shirt. Finally Mycroft could again look at him without flinching, or looking away. Everything covered, the physical damage, the human frailty, the physical nakedness. Demure and asexual again. Acceptable. Sherlock read his brother's sententious mind without feeling, accustomed to it.

"I admit my guilt - I did at the time. So why not charge me with murder? Why release that ludicrous story about a double suicide pact? Why not tell me - ask me? And if I am not being charged, what am I still doing here?"

"You are here while we decide what to do with you." Mycroft sighed and sat on the blue plastic chair at the blue plastic desk with an expression of distaste. His brother stifled a smirk.

"Nothing that has come to light as a result of Christmas Day at Appledore has been what was expected. You have, once again, managed to defy and defeat all expectations."

"My function," was the reply, with a small brisk bow of the head in acknowledgement of the rare and implied compliment.

Mycroft Holmes gave his brother a disillusioned look. Pushed the computer bag in his direction.

"I am returning your laptop," he said. "It won't work here; no WiFi for inmates." he paused. "Unusually like mine in appearance, isn't it?"

"Identical. In fact."

"Quite so," His brother tried to look suitably sour, and failed. "I was convinced that this was, indeed, my laptop. On which sit most of the secrets of the Western world. However, when I opened what I thought was my laptop, retrieved from Appledore, I found…"

"Something that opened with the same password, looked identical. Appeared to have identical contents…." prompted Sherlock Holmes.

"But in fact, did not and was not. This computer turned out to be something of a work of art, and was entirely full of false, official looking information, and was also encrypted to send warning alerts to MI5 and MI6 as well as the computer crime section at New Scotland Yard when opened.

"Someone…" Mycroft used the word very pointedly. "…..someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to lure Magnussen into a trap - and convict himself - as soon as he tried to use that laptop."

"Well - what did you think I was doing while I was away recuperating? Teaching myself to knit socks?"

"Possibly. Who knows with you?" A pause that was meant to be censorious, yet failed. "So instead of you heading to Appledore set upon treason, with a laptop full of state secrets, you went to Appledore with a joke laptop full of tricks and traps. Which had nothing to do with breaching national security."

"But to ensure it."

He watched his little brother look away then and suppress a smile.

"What I would like to know," he added earnestly, "Is how you did the switch? So that I would fall into a drugged sleep hugging to my breast nothing more than your box of tricks?"

"Opportunity is always the key. Did a quick swap when you stepped outside in front of me for that cigarette break."

"Leaving me to find my own laptop propped against the wellies in the hall later. And not realising until after I had opened the laptop I only thought was mine."

Sherlock might have laughed at the thought of tricking his brother, but did not.

"I could have sympathy for you. If I really thought you were drugged. But you reacted far too quickly, didn't you? You could not have been out cold for an hour - as you should have been - to have got to Appledore so quickly."

"Quite right. Well spotted. You see, I could not understand why you had inflicted a visit to the parents onto poor Wiggins, even if it was Christmas. That only made sense if he was there as your assistant, to oversee some action you could not because you were elsewhere.

"But as far as I knew, you did not plan to be elsewhere. So something was going on. And then Wiggins proved such a terribly helpful guest to Mummy in the kitchen. And then he made punch. And Mary's tea. Knowing his drug dealing history, there was only one construct.

"I took no more than a sip of the punch and then did the old watering-the-plant-on-the kitchen-windowsill trick. Watched Mummy slump in the chair and drop to sleep - with Wiggin's keen eye on her - and then Pops did the same thing.

"I heard your words with Dr Watson about drugging Morstan. Heard you say you had done a deal with the devil; and realised what that meant and where you were going."

"You did not try to stop me?"

"Stop the man with the plan? Of course not. Officially I may be disapproving, but unofficially, I appreciate you had no alternative but to kill Magnussen. And I could very much see the merits of that.

"I also knew Dr Watson had brought his gun - he would leave it in his coat pocket in the hall, confident he was hiding it in plain sight. He can be very transparent. Still seems not to realise Holmes's automatically go through other people's pockets by some sort of feral instinct. So I knew he would protect you, if needed.

"And then I also understood why you had made him bring his own gun, and you were going into the lion's den without your own: so that with hindsight, officialdom would not mistake Watson as the shooter, because the top fingerprints on the Sig would be yours. To both protect Watson from accusation of murder, and made the killing look unpremeditated as not your gun used. If you needed that as a legal defence."

"Quite so."

"You had intended to kill Magnussen all along?"

"No. But I knew Magnussen well enough to know that dealing with someone so slippery and vicious, I needed a Plan B and probably a Plan C as well. My intention had really only ever been to raid the vaults and destroy the contents. Make everyone safe. Everyone that counted, anyway. Killing him was merely a possibility I had to consider may become a necessity."

"I needed John to believe Mary was my prime focus, so he would come with me and be both helpmeet and witness - I have been far from sure of his loyalty and commitment to me ever since my return from Serbia, though pretty certain of his commitment to Mary, contrary to all evidence.

"My intention had always been what I told him - to have him with me to hold Magnussen at gunpoint while I raided his vaults.

"But there were no vaults. So I had to fall back to the final plan. Because of Magnussen's last move. My last vow."

"That was to the Watsons. Surely?"

"Not quite. In the garden. You said…you told me….I was your dragon slayer. I didn't deny it. To me my silence, my lack of denial…. is….was….as good as a vow. To you. My promise. Made years ago. The roles we were given then. I never say it, but.." he hesitated. "You know it anyway. That I will always kill your dragons for you."

Before Mycroft was able to formulate or even stutter a reply, Sherlock spoke again and cut him off. "Magnussen was just another dragon."

Unable to stop himself, Mycroft Holmes rose from the plastic chair and took two involuntary steps forward.

"You killed Magnusson - because of me?" The words forced their way out slowly, spoken with an air of horrified disbelief.

His brother stepped back and turned away without answering directly.

"I don't think you would be here now unless you had found the true equivalent of Magnussen's vaults. And you have found paperwork. Too much paperwork?"

"Sherlock, there are times…." Exasperation, astonishment. Almost affection.

"When you find me almost tolerable? I'll take that as a compliment, brother. So tell me."

Sherlock Holmes slipped on his jacket and remained standing, still close to his brother. He leaned forward a little.

"Do we have to stand this close to talk so the CCTV does not hear us? Or have you been a cunning big brother and had it turned off? Just for a little while? Secret government business and all that?"

His taller brother tilted a look down at him, abashed at being found out. Was there anything Sherlock ever missed?

"Good egg. That means we can step back a bit and talk properly. Now I know." He sat on the edge of the bed. "So tell me, brother mine. You must be dying to confess it all."

"Stop being sarcastic. It suits you too well."

"Second nature, merely."

They smiled at each other. An observer would not have been reassured.

"I took a team into CAM News. And an architect, and a surveyor who had the building's plans. It took two days to find the room you had said was there. A secret door in the master bedroom behind a wall mounted cheval glass. Narrow stairs to a huge space above the penthouse and just below the roof, described on the plans as a service space.

"Full of computers and filing cabinets and security boxes. We are still doing primary assessments. I suspect it will take years to evaluate and utilise all this material. If Magnussen had used it all…" Mycroft shook his head.

"Already I can tell you there is much material Magnussen gathered for blackmail and corruption that will be of great value to MI5 and 6. Customs and Excise. And probably the City Of London Police as well as the Met. And all for truth and justice, now Magnussen's legacy. How ironic is that?"

"I am probably more amused than he would have been."

"Indeed. Your result, though. Your victory."

"Thank you. I am aware you did not find it easy to say that. So I am vindicated?"

"Don't try to appear naïve. It does not suit you."

"Then there is something you still aren't telling me," Sherlock probed.

"I would appreciate it if you could be a little less astute occasionally."

"Runs in the family," he observed. "Tell me, Mycroft. You owe me that."

His brother signed and shook his head..

"I owe you….." he began, and faltered. Candour for once, candour his brother deserved and had earnt, but he was still hating having to deliver it. Hating but needing.. "Too much. Apology beyond words. For all I did not tell you. Do for you. Feel I could and should have done to have lessened…."

"Stop it. I don't want to hear that. Do not abase yourself before me. Save that for your masters. If you feel you must grovel to someone. Never to me."

"Sherlock. Please.".

"And don't ever - _ever_ \- plead. I can't bear it."

Mycroft Holmes watched some spasm of anger or shame pass through his brother and waited until he was able to look back up at him and meet his eyes again.

"The only thing you should apologise for is bringing me out of Serbia. You should have let me die there. Nothing has been right since then. Least of all me."

Another long pause. Mycroft felt bound to fill that space, to continue his debriefing. Give his brother time to get a grip.

"You were needed. You are always needed. That is both your genius and your burden."

"Yes."

"I will always be there for you." Seven words that seemed picked out of the sky at random.

Sherlock Holmes gave no indication of having heard the words, and said nothing more. So Mycroft continued.

"There was so much material in this secret room I had to order in another team to help take everything away. The CAM News staff were not really cooperative - I think everyone was stunned.

"Because there were suddenly so many people about - Anthea is so terribly good at organising people that even I become superfluous - I went down to Magnussen's office on the news gathering floor to see what else I might find. My special task, I felt.

"In a locked drawer of his desk - so kind of you to have taught me how to deal with that little hindrance, by the way - I found his current files. Who he was concentrating on…."

Unusually, Mycroft's voice again stumbled to a halt.

"You found our files. Yours and mine." Sherlock Holmes's voice was low and slow.

"You found the originals of those photos of me. And something else? DNA swabs with my name on? Fingerprints on tape ready to use to incriminate me for a crime if I did not play ball? Falsified blood tests for me - showing I have HIV or similar? Yes?"

His brother looked down into his face silently and without blinking.

"Oh! I see! And he had done the same for you, too? Your blood? Your fingerprints? Rumours about you manufactured and ready to roll? False proofs of sado-masochistic practises, perhaps? Sexual deviance? Because of your lack of a life partner, ordinary human contact? Mycroft?"

"I deal with evil on a daily basis, Sherlock. I thought there was nothing that could shock or surprise me. Well….apart from you on a good day."

He tried a small, pinched smile and his brother, unusually, smiled back as a purely human response.

"I have met Magnussen casually at many events. Receptions, drinks parties, that sort of thing. It would have been so simple for him to have lifted a glass I had used and left my prints on. And the thought never struck me.

"While you were in hospital he stumbled against me going up some steps at a reception. Caught hold of my hand as if to support himself. The glass in that hand broke and cut me. He was profusely apologetic, took the glass from me, went to find a first aider. He had planned that, I now realise. To get a sample of my blood. It was very cleverly done.

"I stood in his office yesterday and realised you were right. Had been right all along. I had had the man under my nose and yet had been duped. Me! This man was not just a businessman, not just harmless. But a true predator.

"I had not believed you. I had thought you were swayed, distracted.….getting too close to him. Because I could see how much he was attracted to you; and I did not know what you were doing…because you were making it look as if you were attracted to him, too."

"I thought you were supposed to know me?"

"We learn something new every day, brother mine. Even I am not immune. But I also realised, seeing all this material, remembering all your warnings, that he was indeed heading for me. To create his trap and blackmail me. Because he thought I love and seek power like him.

"I realised you had always known that truth. That you and I were to be his next targets."

The younger brother smoothly took over the narrative,

"At Appledore Magnussen explained chain of leverage to John. He said you were the most powerful person in the country - apart from him. That was the point I absolutely knew you were his ultimate target. You specifically.

"The old case of Jack and Ellie that Elizabeth had first brought to me and kicked all this off was very weak from the start. I could not believe how seriously she was taking it. But I knew she needed help. It was too personal for her to hand to MI5 to resolve. So she came to me.

"What struck me about the case was how Magnussen was not developing Jack's scenario to influence Elizabeth. But to work the Ellie Sondersun connections - her husband's place in the Danish Parliament, and on the Wamberg Committee; the connection of the Jaegerkorps, the Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe.

"Logically Elizabeth should have been Magnussen's next target after Jack. Unless Magnussen knew what few people know. That Elizabeth is an assessor and judgement maker. That you are the man with the true influence, the power behind the power. Kingmaker, mover and shaper.

"Knowing Magnussen was a shark who circled in from the edges to hit his prey, it was logical that prey was you.

"Also by then I had been approached by Kitty Haig - who had been Kitty Riley and had prior contact to me through Moriarty that she could use to contact and influence me. Not only did she work for Magnussen, it was also clear he had sought her to be his employee. Had pushed her towards me.

"So he had been interested in me, working his way towards me, for a long time. I had not realised. But that showed another route - me - to lead him to you. Because he perceived me as your only weakness."

"Because you are." Three words. A rare admission that rocked Sherlock Holmes, made him narrow his eyes and scowl. But reserve comment and continue.

"It was no huge leap to recognise you as his ultimate target. I had to act. And before you ask why I did not tell you….I had to act without government interference, which you would be compelled to bring in if you knew. Also I knew your stance on Magnusson - a rare blind spot. Safer not to alert you and have you stomping all over this. Restraining me, or stopping me."

Mycroft Holmes exhaled an angry breath, looked searchingly at his brother. But did not interrupt. The logic was infallible.

"To discover Magnussen was physically attracted to me was a shock. I do not want or expect anyone to be attracted to me. My blindspot. So I had to work alone. Stay alone. Far too personal a lever to reveal to you, Mycroft."

There was a long silence. Sherlock motionless, Mycroft unusually now pacing the room.

"You put up a good smokescreen. I thought you were having an affair with the man. Something I have never considered about you ever before. Emotional terrain I could not cross.

"But yesterday I realised the truth, Sherlock. Plain unvarnished truth. You killed Magnussen to stop his blackmail happening. To protect me. To save me. And that is why you were so harsh towards me - even more so than normal. Why you hit me at the Guildhall. To create a smokescreen of mutual dissonance."

There was silence. Mycroft Holmes silently urged his brother to break that silence. To admit, to explain.

"You have been overworking," said his brother calmly. "Go home and catch up on some sleep." It was the same tone of voice he had used to urge Mycroft to have some more punch on Christmas Day.

"You don't want to discuss this?"

"Do you?"

"No. But I must ask you one thing more. Because other people will ask me, I need your answer. You say you killed Magnussen for me, for Morstan, for the others…..how much of that decision was made for you? For revenge?"

"Revenge? You purport to know me. Why would revenge motivate me?" Sherlock Holmes shook his head. "Do not ask me to bleed over you, Mycroft. I put myself in peril by going to Appledore on my own in the first place. I made a mistake, and am still paying for it.

"Eventually I realised that mistake was the best thing I could have done. I don't have to tell you the rape was foul - you have seen the photographs. But it served me well in two things.

"It showed me that Magnussen was indeed a cruel manipulator who would stop at nothing, act quickly, and take any chance. And that by abusing me he had fed his fascination for me. A fascination I could manipulate to my advantage, giving me the hold over him that he thought was his hold over me.

"I won't deny the rape was cruel and damaging. Not...anything...new to me. But without the advantage it gave me I would never have brought him down. Every tyrant has a weakness that topples them eventually. And I was Magnussen's.

"So no. I did not kill him for revenge. I would suffer his rape again for that advantage it gave me. I will do anything I must to win. Especially when the stakes are so high. You know that."

His brother was shaking his head, unable to find words. Sherlock Holmes watched him without sympathy.

"Are we done? he asked.

Mycroft Holmes remained speechless. His brother shrugged, turned away and covered himself with the duvet again.

Goodnight, Mycroft."

"Sherlock…"

"Thank you for the clothes, Mycroft. It would be nice if I could leave here with you, but that would be too much to expect.

"You know where I will be when you come again. To deliver me of my fate, and what my punishment will be. Punishment for executing a criminal mastermind. And for being right. 'Twas ever thus. Close the door when you leave."

TO BE CONTINUED…..

 **Author's Notes:**

Paddington Green Police Station in London is England's most important high security police station. A typical Sixties police station of concrete and glass panels, it has 16 high security cells below ground level with a separate custody suite. High profile terrorists are detained there, and IRA suspects have been questioned and held there, as were the 7/7 London bombers.

A Ferguson suit, turtle suit or anti suicide smock was designed by Californian nurse Lorna Speer in 1987. Bulky and tear resistant it is made so it cannot be twisted into a noose. Basically two squares of quilted material with adjustable straps to fit. Awkward and demeaning to wear.

The Howard League For Penal Reform: A UK charity working for safer communities and prison reform.

Panic Room: A safe fortress room within a building, much used in mediaeval times, and fashionable for the rich in modern times. A good lock and an impenetrable door are basics, with food supplies and WC facilities. Can also include armaments, air filters and suchlike to ensure impregnability.

Top hole and tickety boo: Top hole is an Edwardian phrase for excellent or first class, and comes from the practise in games like cribbage for high scores to be marked at the top of a score board with pegs in holes. Tickety boo comes from the early 1900's and thought to be derived from colonial India, the Hindi phrase 'tickee babu' which translates as 'all right, sir.'

'Twas ever thus: a much repeated parody of as phrase from a Thomas Moore poem of 1817, that was used in Dickens' Old Curiosity Shop and others. Meaning nothing changes.


	39. Chapter 39

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 39:'Burned to dust all I adore…'

A vicious north wind was sweeping over the exposed acres of the military airfield, somewhere unidentified but about forty miles west of London.

The two official limousines stood on the concrete runway beside the private Lear jet. Steps down, engine turning over and warning up gently.

Security men stood discreetly to one side - identical black suits, square faces expressionless like undertakers, keeping a watchful eye on Sherlock Holmes. The felon and murderer Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Holmes, erect and imperturbable, not registering the inclement weather other than raising his shoulders into his big Belstaff coat and blue cashmere scarf to protect his ears a little. Leather gloved hands held formally by his sides, dark curls ruffling, unheeded, in the strong breeze. Standing next to his taller brother, whose Gieves and Hawkes covert coat and paisley scarf were not dissimilar, just different.

"What are we waiting for?" he asked his brother, his words whipped away by the wind, so no-one else heard.

"We are waiting for a car. Someone wants to say farewell to you."

"I have done my farewells, thank you. Spoken to Mrs Hudson and collected my things."

He preferred not to think of their meeting earlier that day.

o0o0o0o

Martha Hudson had heard him enter the house, followed him up the stairs and into the flat, silent, worried, little face pinched.

"Are you sure you're all right? You look terrible."

"I'm fine, Mrs Hudson. Honestly."

He went straight into his bedroom, drew his suitcase from the top of the wardrobe, and proceeded to pack. He felt faint and depressed from lack of food and sleep, and weighed down with knowledge of his fate to come. Banishment and more.

Nothing he did not deserve. Nothing he could face or fight with the impulsion of anger or injustice to fire him forwards, though. He had been delivered of his just desserts. No knowledge, no resignation, could be more destructive.

She stood in the doorway and watched him, and her silence disturbed him more than her usual inconsequential chatter that he had to normally tune out to semi permanent mute.

He could feel her worry increasing as he packed his things. Because she was seeing what he was packing. Not the usual elegant suits, fitted shirts, formal shoes. He packed corduroy trousers, jeans, sweaters, boots, a thornproof jacket, survival gear.

With an odd apologetic glance slanted in her direction he reached into the floorboards under the window to retrieve the Browning and a box of bullets. Wrapped them in a twill shirt and put them in the suitcase. She did not protest or express surprise. She had always known it was there, and probably knew about all the other weapons and tools he had secreted around the house, even though she never mentioned them.

She sucked in a distressed breath, but otherwise made no comment. Her silence bothered him.

"I have to go, Mrs Hudson."

"You are coming back? This isn't like…isn't like….?"

"Leaping off a high roof? No. I'm not dead today. Not yet, anyway."

He smiled at her as he closed the suitcase, and she stepped forward before he could pick it up to put her hands on his arms.

"Please tell me you are coming back, Sherlock. Please tell me you aren't going to be away for two whole years? Not again?"

She punched his arm in emphasis, and to stop her seeing and thinking he wrapped his arms around her and placed a kiss on her forehead. She was tiny and frail and indomitable. Older than his mother, and far more precious.

"Shush," he said. "Please shush." He felt her arms tighten around him in a convulsive hug.

"Six months, Mrs Hudson. At the most. Honestly. Mycroft says so, and you know he's always right."

"I know you too well, Sherlock Holmes! And you wouldn't say anything like that to me unless you are lying through your teeth! Mycroft right indeed! He's rarely right as far as you are concerned. And you know it!"

She leaned back in the security of his arms and glared up at him. Silently demanding a proper answer this time.

He realised there were some things he could not avoid saying.

"I have been a naughty boy, Mrs Hudson. Off to sit on the naughty step for a bit." He tried to make light of things, but she was no fool.

"You are always naughty, Sherlock. That is who you are. So for you to admit to being naughty it must be something bad. Have you killed someone?"

The question was as astute as it was unexpected. But no-one deserved his honesty and his admission more.

"Yes."

She frowned at him for a long moment. Not shocked. Not even surprised. Just working something out.

"Someone who deserved it, then. Some nasty villain no-one else dared touch but who needed to be killed?."

"Stop it." He could not avoid an edge to the amused tone he sought for, and because she knew him so well, she heard it. Narrowed her eyes at him.

He did not know whether to laugh and dismiss her accuracy of thought, or admit everything. But it was uncomfortable to recognise she was reading something in his face, in his bearing. And that in the final analysis she knew him better than anyone.

He remembered her calmly washing Fredrick Sondersun's blood from her doorstep and demanding a new tea towel to replace the one she had staunched his bleeding with. How she had stopped him fainting afterwards in reaction. And coming to bake him scones at Agnaro.

Those memories almost broke him. His mouth opened and shut, without the power of words. But he concentrated regardless, and realised she was speaking again….to him, or for him?

"You killed someone to save someone. But not yourself." It was not a question. It was her deduction.

He neither answered nor moved. Did not want to give himself away.

"You're not answering me. And you are not denying anything, or scorning what I say. Not like you normally do." she buried her hands in his shirtfront.

"Did you kill someone to save….Mary?" the voice was tiny and uncertain, but she was always cleverer than she looked. Her shot in the dark made him smile a little, twitch his head a little. But he said nothing. So she pushed. "To save someone else? John? Mycroft? Others?"

The fingers of one hand left his arm to creep upwards to her own face, to cover the shock that was making her lips tremble.

"Who?" The one word was hollow with trepidation. It asked who he had shot; not who he had saved. Because she had understood that his silence meant he had saved them all.

He had no easy answer for her, and bit his lip to stop words - the wrong words, the wrong sort of words - escaping. She saw him do it. The tremulous hand moved from her face to his. A featherlight touch to his jaw.

"Oh, Sherlock. How many did you save? Is that why…? Why you shot him? You did, didn't you? It was you. That death in the papers of that media mogul. They said it was a suicide pact. But you can never believe anything you read in the papers. It was you. You killed that evil man…..".

Her face was old and gaunt with horror now and the warming little paw withdrew leaving a coldness in it's place. He really did not want that.

"What man would that be?" His voice sounded almost like himself, bright and dismissive.

"That tall foreign man. The one who came here. With his heavies and his superior smug little smile. And then peed in the fireplace." She frowned at him, and saw the answer in his eyes. "Horrible bloody man," she said firmly." No manners whatsoever. And he frightened you. He did, didn't he?"

He looked at her and felt ancient and ill and so tired he could not understand how he was still standing up. But he needed to admit something to someone before his head exploded.

"Yes, Mrs Hudson, he frightened me."

"Deserved it then, didn't he?" She said it with a little shrug, as if it was obvious. Looked up at him and tightened her grip on his shirt and gave him a little shake. "No-one should set out to frighten other people. No-one should set out to frighten you, especially. Not when you…." she broke off and peered up at him.

 _She is not shocked. Why is she not shocked? Saw too much death when her husband was alive and running his drugs cartel? Seen too much of the dark side of life? Has too much faith in me? Some landlady, then. Better than I have ever deserved,_

"When you save people. Has anyone thanked you for that? Clearing up a mess for other people, yet again. 'Cos that's what you do!"

He rested his head on the top of hers and tried not to sob into her hair. Tried not to let go. He hadn't let go once, not even in the holding cell - especially not in the holding cell, with it's 24 hour CCTV surveillance - but sometimes it had been a close run thing as he hid from himself under that stinking duvet.

And never closer than now.

"I'll come back," he promised her, voice strained and hollow. Promised because it was what she wanted to hear. But a promise he was certain he was never going to keep.

"You mind you do!" she chided. Stepped out of his arms and let him go. "I'll look after everything here for you, don't fret."

He smiled at her and picked up the suitcase.

"If you need anything, anything at all, ask Mycroft."

"Tell him, more like. Don't worry, I'll chivvy him, make sure he brings you home safe and sound. I'll nag him to death!"

"You could, too," he complimented her.

And it said something about her courage and tenacity that he was still smiling as he went heavily down the seventeen stairs with his case and towards the outside world. He looked back at 221B, Baker Street as he got into the limousine awaiting him. Something he never did normally.

For he was certain, this time, he would never see his home and his refuge ever again.

o0o0o0o

And now, after one difficult farewell - here was the promise of another arriving in a big black limousine.

"Oh, not Lady Smallwood?" He was irritated now. "That really is so unnecessary."

"No. Not her."

Mycroft Holmes swivelled a bland expression towards his brother. And Sherlock knew.

"Oh, for God's sake! Sentiment now? I told you I did not want to see John Watson. Told you very clearly."

"And Mrs Watson. It appears they wanted to say farewell to you more than you did not want to say farewell to them. And it seemed appropriate. In the circumstances."

"Not fair, brother mine. Really not fair."

Distracted eyes spotted a second sleek dark limousine come through the main gates of the airfield and slowly turn onto the perimeter road, heading their way.

He could not be bothered to argue further. It was just too late.

With a tight sigh he turned and presented his back to the jet, readied and waiting just for him, and waited for the arrival of the last car. He was aware that his brother took up an identical semi formal position on his left flank. He was neither impressed nor reassured by that.

It had been the most bloody awful week, and this was the highlight. Flying off into the wide blue yonder and never expecting to return.

But then, he thought, and not for the first time, what do you expect when you shoot someone's face out? Gratitude and garlands? The worst thing so far had been a week of solitary confinement in a high security police holding cell when he should have been dead too. Or back out in the world doing stuff. One or the other. It hardly mattered which. Nothing or something.

But not the limbo of the past week. The purgatory of the imprisonment, the inactivity, the brain rotting boredom of life not being lived. No justification for existence, no distraction, no brainwork.

A time of confinement neither improved nor alleviated by visitors.

Mycroft and Lestrade had been bad enough. Third time unlucky was when a blonde woman with bright blue eyes walked through the door behind the Paddington Green high security underground suite custody sergeant.

"Visitor for you," Sergeant Peter Abell announced unnecessarily. And although he may have been half expecting Lady Smallwood, the visitor was Mary Watson.

Sherlock Holmes, lying flat on his hard bed, looked across at the woman in the bright red coat carrying a massive bump before her, surprised but not registering it on his face.

"Go away. I said I did not want to see you."

"And hello to you too," she said serenely, standing small but confident in the middle of the cell. "You actually said you did not want to see John. I am not John."

"And don't we know it?" he did not bother to keep the bitter edge from his voice.

"Twenty minutes…." the Duty Sergeant intoned, stepped back and closed the door.

The silence in the cell stretched into awkwardness.

"Does he know you're here?"

"Of course not. He's at work. If he knew I was here, don't you think he would have come with me? That neither of us could have stopped him?"

He looked at her impassively for a long moment, and with a sigh turned his face to the wall. Was aware of her moving closer to him.

"You don't make it easy, Sherlock." He ignored her. "Not easy at all," she continued.

There was a silent moment full of tension. Because he knew he was supposed to ask what she was talking about. He refused to. And then he felt a hand on his cheek. Curving, not striking. Gentle fingertips only. No knuckles.

His head turned and his eyes flew open and hers were too close, closer than he had expected, looking into his face as if confronting a mystery. He moved his head quickly and flicked her hand off.

"Please don't touch me. Or come near me. If that's OK with you? I would hate your husband to make any false inferences from finding I actually let you touch me."

The sarcasm had too much edge, but she did not react to it. She simply smiled at him, somewhat sadly. Which made him frown. Frown harder when she perched on the edge of the bed next to him, close enough to touch, but no longer touching.

"You are such a strange man, Sherlock Holmes. Like a prickly pear. Wounding and spiky on the outside. Sweet and tender inside. You don't fool me."

"Feminine twaddle, Mrs Watson. Beneath you."

"I am trying to say thank you, Sherlock. And bloody hard work it is, too."

He had been turning away from her again, but her words froze him into stillness.

"Nothing to thank me for," he muttered. Automatic, upper class denial of praise.

"There is everything to thank you for. You returned John to me. You saved my life - in effect. You did not retaliate and kill me for trying to kill you. Which would have been the normal reaction. What I have been always expecting. Yet you forgave me, despite everything. You went to Magnussen for me. Destroyed Magnussen and his vaults. Saved me.

"Yet you say I have nothing to thank you for? Are you really such an idiot?"

"I have read your file, Mary. I have read AGRA. There is nothing I do not know about you."

She did not move, but he felt her mental recoil. She assessed his own assessment of that knowledge. Looked him in the eye.

"You read that before you and John went to Appledore to destroy my history and save me. And yet you still went."

"Don't sound so incredulous. Your record was no more, no less, than I expected. You had - have - a remarkable skill set. Your record is formidable. If John had read your file he may have been jealous of your level of ability and your commitment. Not repulsed at all."

"That's it? Not horrified, not appalled?"

"Why should I be? I already knew you had the skill to decalibrate bullets - thank you for that, by the way, otherwise I would have been dead."

"Look: listen: I need to apologise for that….I didn't mean…..foe the shot to be so accurate. I meant to delay you. Not almost kill you. It just….."

"….happened because you panicked; could think of nothing but saving John, having been thwarted from killing Magnussen. By me. Sorry about that. But I understand. And you were still programmed in your head to kill. I am lucky your training did not overwhelm you. You must have been millimetres from delivering a cluster of kill shots at me. I was amazed when you were able to stop yourself after just one. I believe I still am."

"Even as that bullet left the barrel…you won't believe me, but….even then….I knew I'd done the wrong thing. Wanted to call it back. Put myself between it and you. If I could have done, I would.

"You have never treated me with anything other than kindness and friendship. Your version of those things anyway." She smiled at him, a smile of sweetness and gentle understanding. "You did not deserve to be shot. Not by me. Even though I knew from that first evening we ever met, even in the restaurant, that you saw through me. Did not trust me. Knew I was keeping secrets - dangerous secrets. But you still let me in."

He said nothing.

"I read you, Sherlock Holmes - professional to professional. You made allowances for me you would not have made for anyone else. You made them for John. And you swallowed all your doubts and fears. All the alarm bells you heard ringing.

"And for that kindness and that sacrifice I betrayed you. And I shot you."

He lifted a shoulder to shrug off her words, pulled a face, shook his head.

"I am not sure," she continued, "That my husband knows how much you love him. What depths of yourself you have sacrificed to keep him happy and unaware. Even when he turned away from me when he discovered who had shot you. Even then you did not gather him to you and claim him back. Even then you helped and supported me, in your own way. Pushing him to come back to me."

"Stop these emotional ramblings."

She smiled at him then, and could not resist ghosting a fingertip to his lips. "I heard you talking on the doorstep, Sherlock. Just before Christmas. Heard you trying to make him sort things out, get his act together. Reconcile before the baby is born.

"Heard you explaining why he needed to sort things out. I nearly came out of the bedroom and confronted you both. Even opened the door and peered out. But then I saw John put his arms around you. And I saw your face."

He could not look at her.

 _Mary. Stop this. I don't want it or need it and it is deeply embarrassing. You are only making yourself suffer._

"I think you understand John's feelings for you more than you understand your own for him. I know about the feelings you share for each other - the depths, the interdependence. Nothing to do with sex or sexuality. A closeness usually only shared under immense stress and combat conditions. But you two have always had that special connection, haven't you? From the very first day you met, I think."

He shook his head and was about to deny her, but she moved her fingers across his lips and stopped him talking.

"I understand. I am not jealous. Once - it seems like lifetimes ago now - I told you that you and John were one team, John and I were another. I think you believed I said that out of jealousy, or envy, or - something. And perhaps I did, then. But it was only after I had said the words I realised the truth of them.

"I know John Watson. And I know how much he needs you. Which is more - much more - than you need him. And you know that too. Both your strength and your weakness, Sherlock. And I will probably say this only ever the once, so pay attention and listen to me."

Her voice was fierce for that moment. And then she smiled at him. A smile of such sweetness and gentleness it stopped his breath as he looked at it.

"I know you won't hear this or accept it, but I care for you very much, Sherlock Holmes. I owe you my happiness and my life. And whatever happens to both of us - all four of us, now, dammit - from now on, I need you to know that. To believe it, and understand that my feeling for you will never, ever, change.

"Because without you I would not have a life. Not any sort of proper life. Or be living it as I am now. If it all ended tomorrow…..I would still owe you big time."

She leant forward, and kissed his forehead as gently and softly as if kissing a child. And looked down into glass grey eyes looking up into hers that had a transparent and disturbing rare and childlike sense of wonder in them that unexpectedly splintered her soul.

So: he was human after all. She had never been quite sure, until now. But she could see he heard and understood exactly what she was saying to him. Every bit of it. And her words were going straight to the heart he denied having.

She relaxed suddenly as she leant over him, all her weight on her arms. Rested her forehead against his. He made a tiny whimper of protest in his throat, and for a second she wondered about him.

Did anyone - man or woman - ever get as close to him as this? Or closer? Feel his body heat, his energy, touch the softness of his face, the unyielding, implacable strength of him? Soothe him or arouse him or stroke his pain away? But even as the thought passed through her mind, she rejected it. This. Is. Sherlock. Holmes. And there was both sadness and an exhilaration in that. That this brilliant and unknowable man truly was her friend and her ally.

"Let me tell you a secret, Sherlock. I am very happy. Because John makes me happy. And here's another secret. You are the best friend a girl could ever have. And that's our special secret, yours and mine."

He said nothing. His face did not move as if he could not risk a smile.

"Go away and forget this conversation," he whispered. He did not seem to be able to make his voice any louder at that moment. "This one sided conversation. I am as good as dead, Mary. Don't waste affection on me. Although your visit has been….." he sought a word. "interesting. Thank you."

She was sent backwards slowly, her eyes on his. Wounded, if she let that feeling through.

"Why say that? What do you mean?"

"Nothing. Your time's up. Sergeant Abell will be coming to fetch you. "

His voice was the usual detached baritone again. As if their conversation had never happened.

"And we don't tell John? Not about this little chat. Do we? We don't tell John," she said. Lightly, masking the earnest intent, unconsciously using the very same words she had used when he was in hospital; when he had thought he was dying. After she had shot him. She did not realise, he could see. But he did.

" Of course not. Don't worry, Mary, I have no intention of sharing any element of this conversation with your husband. "

She looked at him silently for the longest time as he turned his face back to the wall. He had barely moved at all while she had been in the cell with him, she realised. It did nothing to reduce his power.

And as the door opened and she was ushered away, he still did not move. Nor reply to her cheerful;

"Goodbye for now, Sherlock."

o0o0o0o

"I am stuck in a traffic jam on the North Circular Road at this moment. I though you should know. I have carved out fifteen minutes."

Lady Elizabeth Smallwood was standing in front of him, positively vibrating with tension.

"Get on with whatever you have to say then. Want me to count you down?"

"Be quiet, William. Just listen to me."

She dropped her briefcase on the blue plastic desk and straightened her shoulders.

He was on the bed. Sitting cross legged, pressed into a corner. The expensive fitted suit looked incongruous in a high security prison cell. But this was Sherlock Holmes, so what else should she expect?

"You are not cooperating with your incarceration, I hear. Not eating. Not communicating."

"Any point in doing that?" he asked mildly. "When you have my fate in your hands? I am not optimistic."

She sucked in a breath so sharp he might have struck her.

"Your insight is too clear. A pity you never appreciate when not to exercise it."

"I always know. I do it anyway. So get on with it, Do you have your executioner's axe with you? A death cap?"

"Stop it."

She took two steps closer. Exuding all her authority and power. Wordlessly he stood slowly and faced her. Head high and taller, face very pale and expressionless. Legs braced, hands clenched at his sides.

"Tell me my fate. Just get on with it."

She belatedly realised he had been waiting for this conversation from the minute he knew he was not going to be shot dead on the terrace at Appledore. That he had been anticipating a more covert death sentence.

"No….." she began, slightly flustered by understanding his bloodless evaluation of his crime and what his fate would be. "Not that. This is England, for God's sake. And you are Sherlock Holmes…."

"Which is not an excuse," he said plainly.

"For heaven's sake! Stop crucifying yourself!"

"If my fate lies in the hands of my brother, it is easier for me to do so."

She looked sharply at him. His insight was unnatural. As was his resentment of Mycroft.

"You present the British government with a problem, William. You shot a man dead in cold blood. Hard to forgive or forget. Yet no one can pretend the death of Magnussen was not a good thing.

"It has saved the country a great deal of time and money. No-one to answer select sub committee questioning nor meet criminal charges and a lengthy court case that would have ensued and turned over too many embarrassing stones for too many people.

"Not to mention all the secret knowledge Magnussen's files have so usefully revealed. Even the Monopolies Commission has been saved issuing a directive to stop him increasing his empire and his influence."

He nodded grimly. Understood all that.

She quirked an ironic smile. "He left no will. In common law he died intestate, so his brothers - his only family - will inherit. They say they have their own lives and careers, and neither have interest in a new career in the media. So Magnussen's press empire will be broken up and sold."

"For the best."

"Yes. The elder brother, Pedder, tells me he knows you. Admires you. Asked me to tell you neither he nor their brother Johan hold any grudge against you for killing Magnussen. Pedder said he always knew someone would kill him eventually. And if he had to handpick anyone for that task, it would be you."

Sherlock Holmes shot a look at her that was incredulous, disbelieving, rocked back as if he had been physically struck, and braced his shoulders as if a great weight was being finally lifted from them.

"Oh God." Two words of the most abject agony. She heard that and resisted allowing herself any reaction to it.

"This puts an even more complex light on an already complex problem. Which is what to do with you. Any thoughts?"

Her tone of voice lifted in query and he looked down at her with eyes that were bruised and empty. He took two steps back.

"Why ask me? Legally, morally, intellectually, emotionally, I should be charged, tried, judged guilty of murder and imprisoned. But you have put out a ludicrous fable to explain the deaths of Magnussen and Carlsson. So that logical process is not going to happen.

"Pedder's opinion should make no difference. Nor what Lestrade has called mitigating circumstances. My utility is clearly in no doubt, but the fact remains I shot and killed a man in cold blood." He paused, shrugged as if indifferent.

"So an eye for an eye, then. I am a minor public figure. You can't really just shoot me in the head and drop the weighed corpse from a little aeroplane somewhere over the English Channel. My disappearance that way would become a Leslie Howard or Amelia Earhart style mystery than would run forever. Remembered not forgotten. Not good.

"So a staged accidental shooting while practising at Bisley, perhaps? A tragic road accident? A successful suicide bid? Don't think we could pull off the trick of jumping from a roof again, but the accidental miscalculated overdose with the Class A drugs I am known to indulge in would work. Yes, that would be best. No surprise to anyone, that. Final, clean and provable. I have actually promised Molly Hooper at Bart's my corpse for analysis. If you would be so good as to honour that for me?"

He stood square opposite her and shrugged his jacket off one shoulder, put his right hand to his left shirt cuff and pushed back the sleeve, exposing his inner arm. "If you have the stuff with you, I can do it now. Save everyone a lot of trouble."

Not much shocked Elizabeth Smallwood any more. But Sherlock Holmes' pragmatic acceptance of his fate did shock her. The calmness and the cool intent shocked her the most.

And all coming from this brave and frighteningly emotionless young man she still remembered as a tempestuous yet oddly attractive child. And not for the first time she wondered exactly what had changed him so deeply in the years between.

She took a steadying breath. Looked with new eyes at the newly exposed restraint scars on his wrist, the lines of too many old track marks over his veins. Mastered her revulsion and calmly pushed the hand down from the arm and tugged the sleeve back into place.

"You might argue that keeping you alive is a greater punishment than your clear desire for death," she said.

That familiar little frown furrowed across the bridge of his nose. The only visible reaction.

"Indeed so. Logical. A life sentence, then? Please do not incarcerate me in Dartmoor. It is so predictable and I have already done more than my share of running across that wet and rugged terrain."

"Oh, do shut up and listen!" she rapped out, more than exasperated by his unnatural composure.

"My apologies. The floor is yours," he said gravely, bowing his head so very formally, and this time she almost laughed.

"Sometimes you sound so much like Mycroft…..!" she could not resist saying. Then watched him scowl and look away. Ah: shouldn't have said that.

"Your brother has rightly pointed out that there is nothing conventional we can do with you as either punishment or absolution. We quickly realised not only that it would benefit no-one to charge you with murdering such an odious man, but that to do so would reveal too many secrets - his, the government's, and those of many rather sensitive other people.

"We consulted with Magnussen's brothers, and it was felt by them that the suicide pact story was both acceptable and appropriate, and the most believable in the circumstances. We happily complied.

"But that still leaves us with the problem of what to do with you." She looked directly into his eyes and sighed.

"There are those who feel you should be put in prison and the key thrown away. Mostly those whose contact with Magnussen we were already viewing a little - shall we say - sideways?

"As your brother pointed out, however, you would be recognised in prison, and you would cause riots on a daily basis just by existing. Prison would be good neither for you nor the world at large."

She watched him half smile at that, quirk his head a little in recognition of the inconvenient truth..

"So a different sort of punishment, then?" she continued. "Which is interesting, because a majority view had been that you should not be punished at all; that you are the maverick scalpel or blunt instrument the government needs for those special and sensitive tasks that meet no normal remit. I subscribe to that view."

"No, I,,,,no, that's not…."

"Be quiet. This decision has nothing to do with your thoughts or your feelings."

He bent his head and was silent.

"Before you killed Magnussen you and your brother discussed a mission MI6 wanted to second you for in Eastern Europe. A decision Mycroft assessed would prove fatal within six months."

"Yes. I remember."

"You will be sent on this mission. You may consider it punishment, penance or a commuted death sentence. Or a task you can perform and consider a death sentence by proxy. That is up to you to decide for yourself when on the ground.

"Succeed in this and come home. Or fail and die. Succeed and still choose to die out in the field - out of sight and out of mind of everyone who regards you. Or not.

"Make it easy for them, if death is still in your mind as the appropriate penance for your sin of murder. As I say, that outcome is entirely up to you. It is you that has to live - or not - with the burden of your actions."

"Yes. Thank you." he nodded, and she could not see his eyes. "That is more humane than I expected or deserve."

She regarded him without speaking for a long moment, but he did not look up. When she realised that this, for him, was his final act of dumb submission to her authority, she heard herself say:

"William, I must confide to you that I do not agree with this option."

"I understand. Of course, execution would be more appropriate…."

"Do, shut up, child! I mean I don't agree with this plan. I feel you have suffered enough as a result of Charles Augustus Magnussen. Extenuating circumstances and more. And this is all my fault. For involving you in the first place. In my desperation….

He glanced up at her then, and she complimented him by refusing to look away from that familiar steely assessment and insight he now subjected her to.

"Are you alright, Elizabeth?" he asked so softly, a question she had not expected. A step outside himself despite being under such duress.

She moved her head in a reaction that was neither a yes nor a no; bit her lips to stop tears forming in her eyes and spilling over at that unexpected softness of his concern. But he saw her reaction anyway. He always did, she realised.

"My brother wanted this," his murmured, voice low with something anyone else would call emotion. "Wanted me punished, and visibly so. Did not want anyone to feel he was letting me off or giving me any benefit of the doubt just because I am his brother. Did not want my existence to blot his copybook career.

"Although if he had ever confided in me, this case would have had a different cause and effect…" he saw the truth in her face. Knew he was right. And shook his head a little and smiled.

"Don't worry, Elizabeth, I understand. Mycroft must remain the Ice Man. And I must, as ever, be his Sin Eater. "

 _I give easement and rest now. For your peace I pawn my own soul. Amen._

 _Well, not for the first time. And perhaps - now - not for the last._

She frowned at him, not understanding the phrase.

"Don't worry, Elizabeth. It's fine. It's all fine." He stood upright, straightened his crumpled suit around him. "So when do we do this thing?"

"Tomorrow. George will drive you to Baker Street to collect what you need for your trip. On the way to the airfield you may make no more than two calls to order your affairs. George has been instructed not to let you out of his sight.

"You will be on your honour, William."

"Naturally. And you can trust me. Should you feel inclined." he declared.

She picked up the briefcase, turned to knock on the cell door to be released.

"But can you trust me?" she asked, as if to herself. Not sure if he heard her, because he did not react. "I owe you, Sherlock Holmes. I have not forgotten. I will do what I can to mitigate this. Do you understand?"

"No."

"No matter," she said. Paused in the open doorway. "I haven't been here. I am stuck in traffic. Bloody North Circular."

The door clanged closed behind her and Sherlock Holmes went back to sitting crosslegged on his bed. Immobile and impassive.

o0o0o0o

The black Bentley came to a smooth silent halt a discreet few feet away from the leaving party. From the rear seat on the side closest to Sherlock Holmes, Mary Watson rolled out of the door, hampered by her ungainly late pregnancy, ungainly but ignoring it.

She grinned, cheerful and brave for him in her big red overcoat, crossed immediately to the departing consulting detective, delivering a huge grin and big hug. The goodwill of two days earlier was still there.

Taken by surprise, he smiled back at her, open and unguarded for once, and she clasped him to her even more fiercely. Into her neck, so no-one else could hear, he spoke softly.

"You're going to look after him for me. Aren't you?" he asked cheerfully, looking across at John Watson, who was clambering more slowly out of the other door; awkward, looking in any direction other than at Sherlock Holmes, and unsure of his welcome.

He had so much wanted to see his best friend after he was hauled away, unconscious, from the terrace of Appledore. But he had learned soon enough that his friend did not want to see him; and had not wanted to see him now, either. In recent times, that was nothing new.

"Don't worry," Mary Watson reassured, speaking close to Sherlock Holmes's ear, her face close over his shoulder. "I'll keep him in trouble."

"That's my girl."

The warm baritone was low and teasing. The accord between the consulting detective and the assassin who had shot him was deep and honest and so very, very surprising. Finally.

She stepped aside to join Mycroft and the security men, his hand gently trailing down her arm as she moved away, as if reluctant to break their contact for the last time. Which left Sherlock Holmes and John Watson looking wordlessly at each other

Because the end was finally here, and words seemed fragile and stupid and totally superfluous..

"As this is the last conversation John Watson and I are ever likely to have, do you mind if we take a moment?"

The voice was imperious, assuming control. Which was ridiculous, as he was the prisoner, the exile, the condemned man, the victim of justice.

A look was shot backwards to his elder brother, who was suddenly and unusually awkward, and raised his eyebrows in something like surprise, a brief nod authorising discretion and permission.

Mycroft stepped to one side followed by a smiling Mary Watson; and the security men followed them.

John Watson pulled a face, looked away, looked round for some distraction to catch his eye and prompt his speech. But beyond the acres of endless grass there was nothing, and he had to admit it.

"So. Here we are," he mouthed feebly. Hoping but failing to get some inspiration, something meaningful to say before it was too late to say anything at all.

Sherlock Holmes watched him with a slight smile on his lips, standing tall and erect, gloved hands behind him at parade rest; they both assumed that semi-formal position by default. Close but not touching, and not relaxing at all.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

It was an announcement, and a total surprise to John Watson.

"Sorry?" he fumbled in reply.

"That's the whole thing. In case you're looking for baby names." A brief confession of human honesty and unconditional love. Serious information presented as a joke. A secret confidence shared as humorous confession. That would do.

From puzzlement Watson then became simply amused. Looked down and away and stifled a giggle. Self consciousness and awkwardness forgotten.

"We've had a scan. We're pretty sure it's a girl."

Simple, vacuous conversation at a level close to banality such as they never had. Anything spoken rather than feelings expressed, emotion released. Anything other than that. Sherlock Holmes heard the collective pronoun and was reassured. Three of them sharing this pregnancy, sharing that love.

One unconsciously spoken word that made all the sacrifice and the pressure worthwhile. One word to assure him he had not got everything wrong.

"Oh." He smiled, pretended to look surprised, and a little moved. Grinned. "OK."

"Jesus." A typical John Watson expletive of frustration. A shake of the head, a glance away, a snort of self directed frustration. "I can't think of a single thing to say."

"Me neither." He could do nothing but mirror the expression, the frustration, the artificiality of the situation.

John Watson lent forward, expression both sad and pugnacious, slightly resentful.

"The game is over," he said with finality.

Sherlock Holmes' head rose at the challenge. Imperious again. Unbeaten, unbowed.

"The game is never over, John. But there will be some new players now." He nodded, half smiled. Relaxed his shoulders into resignation. "That's OK. The East wind takes us all in the end."

"The what?"

"A story my brother used to tell me. When I was a kid. The East Wind, a terrible force that lays waste all that lies in it's path. It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the earth." he managed a smile, a new lightness of tone. "Which was generally me."

"Nice."

They shared an ironic amused look. Just like they used to. Neither wanted to think that they would never do that again.

"He was a rubbish big brother." A smile, a pause, a look back to the tall elegant presence determinedly looking anywhere but at his brother.

"Keep an eye on Wiggins for me," he added inconsequentially." He has the makings of a detective if he can be kept off the drugs. Think you could do that?"

"I have some form." John Watson smiled at the understatement, the years and experiences that simple sentence covered. Then the killer question he had been avoiding but could not ignore any longer.

"What about you? Where are you actually going now?"

John Watson died inside as he watched the stance pulled erect again, the head go up and back. The face shutter down, the pull of the shoulders as the hands behind clasped tighter. A little motion of the head, an assumption of almost careless casualness that fooled John Watson for not a second.

"Oh. Some undercover work in Eastern Europe." Offhand, dismissive. Eyes above his shorter friends head, not connecting.

"How long will you be there?" The question pressed. Driven by an increasing sense of fear.

"Six months," he said too quickly, too glibly. Qualified it. Arch tone now." My brother estimates. He's never wrong."

John Watson saw the twist of the mouth, heard the edge of bitterness and finality that had nothing to do with the usual competitive edge. Brother to brother.

So he pressed again.

"Then what?"

The tiniest of shrugs, the eyes sliding away; the words coming in answer that would offer a lie. The body language promised it, and what worried John Watson most was that Sherlock Holmes had done that, but did not realise he had done it. Unbelievable.

"Who knows?"

Silence. John Watson had run out of courage to question, and of the desire to know more of a truth that was quietly horrifying him. He looked down and away as his questions dried up, and his friend observed that. Spoke finally to fill that space between them as best he could before the opportunity and the conversation ended.

"John, there's something I should say."

He paused. A new, confiding tone. John Watson looked up, puzzled. A confession? Now? So late in the day? When they were both so short of time and adequate words to express….what they both needed to express but could not?

"Something I have always meant to say, and I never have. Since it is unlikely we shall ever meet again, I might as well say it now." He took a deep breath in all seriousness, and John Watson hung onto every word, barely daring to breathe; desperate to know what his best friend was going to say. Not daring to think what he wanted him to say.

"Sherlock is a girl's name."

He said it with perfect seriousness. And then grinned like a boy.

John Watson saw that grin and it broke his heart. He dipped his head to control the emotion, and laughed back, all too quickly:

"No it isn't."

"It was worth a try."

To see again and always have in his heart, in his memory, that unguarded open grin of delight at having conned him, John Watson would have walked over hot coals.

"I'm not naming my daughter after you." he spluttered, trying to be indignant, trying not to laugh. Trying not to step forward and wrap his arms around Sherlock Holmes and never let him go; never let him go to be sent to exile and death.

"I think it would work….." Sherlock murmured

"Shut up."

Silence. What to say? Finally…..what to say? To cross all the years, all the adventures? All the hurts and misunderstandings and the heights of achievement? The puzzles solved, the wrongs righted?

John Watson could feel his life moving into slow motion. Of tears forming behind his eyes. Of feelings of love and loss threatening to overflow.

 _Give me a chance, Sherlock. I'll pull the Sig, hold everyone up. Make them back down. We'll steal a car and make a run for it. We got away from Moriarty, we can get away from Mycroft. Butch and Sundance. Thelma and Louise. Sherlock and John._

 _Oh, I know, Ridiculous._

 _I'm going mad to even think that. Reality is not a dangerous place any more. Not an exciting, inspirational thrilling place. Not any more. Not without Sherlock Holmes._

After a moment when John Watson was certain he had read every ridiculous thought that flashed through his mind, Sherlock Holmes pulled off his right glove and held out his hand to John Watson.

And John Watson looked at that strong musician's hand and realised: Sherlock does not do this. Sherlock does not touch. We do not shake hands. We have not shaken hands since that very first evening at Baker Street. When one hovered awkwardly on the doorstep and the other emerged confidently from a taxi.

When John Watson held out his hand to shake hands formally with Mr Holmes, and Mr Holmes asked him to call him Sherlock. And his world found a new axis.

"To the best of times, John." he said.

Finally, after a hesitation that was much too long, John Watson put his hand into Sherlock Holmes'. They shook hands in the way of correct English gentlemen…and then John Watson was as reluctant to release Sherlock Holmes's hand as he had been to take it in the first place. Gave another small shake, delaying his friend pulling his hand back.

Sherlock Holmes broke the hold, the grip, their contact. Averted his eyes and his body and withdrew. Leaving John Watson with eyes downcast, staring at the space on the concrete where his best friend had stood.

Trying not to think - now - of all the words he had wanted to say. But could not.

Without another word the consulting detective turned gently and precisely on his heel, replaced the right glove on his hand. Twelve deliberate steps to the plane, taken without hesitation. Not looking right or left, not looking at his brother or his best friend's wife.

Up the steps and into the private jet. No words, no backwards look, no wave. And was gone.

TO BE CONCLUDED….

 **Author's notes:**

'Never believe anything you read in the papers:' The 'official' version of the Magnussen shooting aftermath as given in S4 had not happened at the time of this story, which is S3, and therefore cannot be anticipated in this canon and timeline compliant story.

It should also be remembered that a story released for public consumption is not necessarily the truth (I am a lifelong career journalist; trust me) Nor that the official version of events has itself to be the truth and nothing but the truth either. As the relevant scene in S4T6T also illustrates.

Also consider that Mycroft 'is the British government' and even in Magnussen's words 'the most powerful man in the country.' Both in fiction and in fact, national security takes precedent over police or other legal considerations, and with the actuality of D notices, time release restricted files and sheer process of machinery, files, paperwork and other material can and does disappear 'for the country's good.'

Bisley: The national UK shooting centre and training ground near Woking, Surrey, established in 1890. Now headquarters of, and administered by, the National Rifle Association. Bisley Camp hosts competitions and clubs, offers practise ranges and trains and supervises all shooting activities in the UK, including clay pigeon shooting. It also hosts military shooting competitions.

Sin Eater: A traditional role whereby another person would take the sins and misdoings of a deceased person into themselves by way of payment, food or prayer so the departed one could go to heaven with a freed heart and conscience.

'I give you easement and rest now, For your peace I pawn my own soul' is just one of many prayers spoken by the Sin Eater in public notification and acceptance of that burden.

'The game is over:' Watson puts a Sherlock catchphrase into the past tense. Which Sherlock rebuts. 'The Game Is On' is the official title of the original Sherlock TV series theme written by David Arnold and Michael Price.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes: Not named as such by ACD, but accepted as canon by Moffat and Gatiss and other Sherlockians from the biography of Sherlock Holmes - _Sherlock Holmes Of Baker Street_ \- written by William H Baring Gould and also used in the Philip Jose Farmer Wold Newton literary universe based around a real comet that fell at the village of Wold Newton in East Yorkshire and the interconnected superhero groupings affected by it.

'To the best of times." Sherlock's words of farewell to John Watson comes from Charles Dickens' _A Tale Of Two Cities._ (1859) - "It was the best of times. It was the worst of times."

Set around the time of the French Revolution, this is one of Dickens' strongest, if most atypical, novels, telling the story of two friends Charles Darnay and Sidney Carton. To say any more would give the story away; suffice to say it is full of Sherlockesque quotations! A brilliant and unforgettable book.


	40. Chapter 40

Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 40: 'The future's in our hands….'

He climbed the five steps into the jet without looking back. At least he was out of the vicious blow of the north wind now. A little less viciousness in life would be good, just as respite occasionally.

He was to be the only passenger. But he already knew that. The thickset steward in the dark suit gave him a nod and a professional smile of greeting. Sherlock gave him one brief, assessing look without speaking and looked away again.

 _Pathetic, Mycroft. Am I supposed not to be able to tell?_

So Sherlock Holmes ignored the presence of the lowly MI6 operative who was to be his unheralded minder and chose a seat on the off side of the cabin, opposite the door, so he would not be able to see his boarding party as they watched him fly away. Always had to be contrary, he thought. Not port out, starboard home, as the phrase went; this time it was starboard out and never coming home, Far more apposite.

No tearful farewells. No waved hankies. No sad faces. No flags waving. No-one praising the conquering hero on his departure. But then, he had always refused to be a hero. An embarrassing facet of sentiment. Sentiment was a facile emotional construct he did not need

He shed the Belstaff slowly, folded it precisely and placed it on the seat beside him. Sat down and leant an elbow on the inside arm rest and put his chin on the heel of his right hand. Turned his eyes away from the interior of the plane - slightly nauseous orange upholstery and blond wood - and looked at the world outside.

His last look at England, was this? His last look at real life? Possibly. Probably. Who knew and who cared? The last view of what should be called home, yet all he could see was concrete and trees and anonymous acres of bland grass. Another anticlimax. After a lifetime of such anticlimaxes.

He allowed himself a brief and cynical smile. Being sentimental himself now? Oh, well, surely it was allowed? Just for once and with no one to witness? At the end of the day? As a last act to finally allow himself to be a little bit human? Like the rest of them?

And only he would know, after all….. sod all this emotional bollocks racing through his head now and threatening to overwhelm him. No. No, he would not. It will not. He sighed and closed his eyes.

 _'When a knight won his spurs in the stories of old,_

 _He was gentle and brave he was gallant and bold….'_

 _How childhood came back to haunt you: those simplistic songs that had been meant to instruct and inspire a moral compass from earliest childhood._

His glanced back to be sure his single suitcase was stowed behind him - packed for anonymity, for travelling light, travelling fast - and if Mycroft was right, and all he had left to live was six months at the most - then he would have everything he needed with him.

 _With a shield on his arm and a lance in his hand….._

To call this task for MI6 a suicide mission was something of a misnomer. Despite Mycroft's dismissal of the task in hand on Christmas Day, Sherlock saw no real problems, considered his brother's assessment overly pessimistic, as always. He had to think that. And that he cared. Until he arrived on the ground, at least. Then make his own assessment of the task in hand.

The projected mission that had originally been refused, but now turned out to be his punishment, his retribution, his penance. His penalty for killing Charles Augustus Magnussen. And was that a cynical government execution by proxy? Or the unacknowledged chink of a possibility for reprieve from the judgement and life sentence deemed fit by Whitehall officialdom?

Both the reality of the mission and the end result of it would depend on his commitment, his conscientiousness and his desire: to return home vindicated, or return home dead. Or just not return home at all. The jury was still out on that one.

 _For God and for valour he rode through the land…_

With one hand to his face and his fingers sleight of handing a fistful of pills he took the single sheet of greyish paper from his pocket, checked the hastily scribbled list against the contents of his hand. He had always kept his promise to his big brother to compile a list at times like this. Even when he was past caring what was on it.

A reference point for Mycroft. Whether or not he got to the body in time, whether or not that would help. But it was a promise once made so long ago he could never renege on. The one thing about his own health and care Mycroft could trust. Whatever the end result.

Blue, pink, yellow, white…..a fistful of sweeties. Sweeties that would guarantee some form of oblivion. If only for respite for the duration of the flight that was taking him on his lonely road towards death. There would always be a list for Mycroft, even if this time it was also his farewell note. He had always promised. And so there was a list.

Not that Mycroft's list would help now. Mid air was no place for a stomach pump. Even if they still used them any more? He thought about that, but wasn't sure. They had always been the stuff of melodrama, more threatening, if less efficient, than activated charcoal, though he knew and didn't recommend the use of either, when it came down to it. Although somehow the mechanical process had always seemed strangely cathartic. A harsh aversion therapy that worked…. until the next time.

And if it so happened that he was dead before the plane touched down, it would all be too late anyway, and the list would become his epitaph instead. Whichever. Whatever. No matter.

 _'No armour have I, and no sword by my side….'_

Die now, die on the mission, die at the end of the mission. Stay alive on the outside and die inside. Which to choose? Or just lie back and let the sweeties make their choice for him? Emergency supplies squeezed from their hiding place in the useful double seams of the Belstaff, that odd extra handful passed to him in a screw of newspaper from Jeanne earlier that morning.

A few scant hours he had travelled away from morning, and yet the morning just gone seemed like yesterday already. George Bradshaw, a silent authoritative presence, had collected him from Paddington Green, taken him to Baker Street to pack his bags, then down to Canary Wharf - the first of the two calls allowed by Lady Smallwood to put his affairs in order - and to the newspaper office where Kitty Haig now occupied her own little realm on the ninth floor.

Dale Pike looked up for inspiration halfway through writing his column for the next day and spotted him striding through the open plan office, chased down and caught him by the shoulder somewhere between rows of anonymous desks in Editorial, spun him into a hug. Making Sherlock Holmes unexpectedly shocked and breathless.

"Magnussen dead! I never dared hope…have never hated someone so much." Dale Pike was flushed with unfettered emotion and the expression of it. And then his objective journalist's brain cut in. "How did you do it?" he asked carefully. Eyes narrowed, concentration intent.

Sherlock Holmes scuffled his feet, rendered awkward at being confronted by the first person who was so plainly and simply delighted about Magnussen's death. It was a strange and surreal experience after the humiliations of the past week.

"Nothing to do with me," he said neutrally. Loath to say more. "Sorry. Dale, must rush, got a plane to catch…" He saw Dale suddenly notice the solid Bradshaw keeping pace with him; and assessed the minder.

"I'm his guard dog." Bradshaw smiled blandly and unhelpfully. But Dale Pike stepped back thoughtfully, looking as if he did not quite believe a word from either of them.

"Catch up with you when I can, Dale. Just got to see Kitty…."

He walked into her little office without knocking, and when she looked up to see who was there - and then who it was - he was again unprepared, this time for her delighted welcoming smile.

"Sherlock! Did you hear what happened? To Magnussen? Someone deserves a medal and angel wings…."

"Yes, thank you. I mean, I know." The words had a machine gun rattle he could not contain. But she seemed not to notice, either tone or words. For which he was grateful.

He stepped towards her, Bradshaw hovering in the doorway, and as she stood up he turned them both so he was standing facing into the room and his back to the door, with Kitty rendered invisible from outside, his larger body and the broad coat blocking sight of her to anyone outside the room, the nearest thing to privacy he could give her in the circumstances.

"I have no time for niceties, Kitty. I have to catch a plane. But I need to tell you something."

She read the gravity in his face and her smile faded. "Anything," she whispered.

He took her by the elbows to support her before she needed it, and leaned in towards her so he could keep his voice low and soft, the conversation private. His eyes, darkly grey green today, looked deep into hers.

"Be calm. Be brave. Listen." he waited until she nodded, set her shoulders and took a steadying breath.

"The man in the black Audi. The man who killed Nick." he hesitated. "I can't give you any details, but you need to know this. He is dead. It's over. Kitty. An eye for an eye. Nick avenged. That man who killed Nick will never hurt you - or anyone else - ever again."

Five seconds of stunned disbelieving silence. He nodded confirmation. Then the wail she gave was biblical in volume and distress. Her face collapsed in a way he could never describe afterwards, and if he had not already been supporting her, she would have fallen, despite the way he felt her hands clutching into his coat for support.

He turned to look out. At the journalists alerted by the awful sound, faces suddenly looking their way At the impassive Bradshaw. At the intent figure of Dale Pike, running towards them from his desk, ignoring all the turned heads pointing their way but remaining at their desks.

He prised her fingers from the thick wool and stepped sideways from her grasp.

"Look after her, Dale. She's just had good news. She'll tell you."

As he walked away he heard her calling him:

"Sherlock! Please come back! Sherlock! Thank you!"

Bradshaw was running to catch up. And back to the limousine.

The chauffeur opened the rear door for him.

"You OK?" he asked, and gave a quick, piercing look that was not returned..

"Barts," he snapped in reply, deeply unsettled. And Bradshaw did as he was bid.

Driving silently through city traffic until:

"Stop! Stop now!"

An emergency stop on red lines driving along the Embankment. Angry car horns, swerving bicycles that were ignored..

"Two minutes!" he snapped, out of the car and vaulting the crash barrier between road and pavement to run to the tall dark haired girl on the concrete bench, at her usual spot.

"Change? Spare some change? Change for a cuppa tea?" she muttered automatically, even as her eyes swivelled towards him.

He sat beside her, not looking in her direction.

"Going away for a bit. Cash for you with Mrs Hudson. Tell everyone to keep an eye on John; check if anyone is following him. Let Big Brother know if so. OK?"

"Yeah."

"Got anything nice for me?"

A dirty hand dipped into an anorak pocket. Produced a screw of newspaper. Only a skilled pickpocket or a policeman would have spotted the handover.

"Cheers, Sister," he said, got up and walked away. Leapt back over the barrier and returned to the car. All done in less than a minute.

"That," Bradshaw announced, "Was bloody naughty."

"Sorry. Spotted an old friend."

"As if."

o0o0o0o

Molly Hooper was in the middle of a very messy post mortem on a railway jumper, a technician alongside and assisting with cataloguing the excess of bits.

The sight would have put most people off their lunch. No maggots, but limbs laid tidily, head between knees, organs scooped by the technician and in bowls, Molly busy talking into her microphone giving details, absorbed.

The sudden sense of someone staring down at her from the viewing gallery made her look up. And her eyes immediately locked onto those of Sherlock Holmes.

She smiled at him, motioned him down to come and join her. Was disappointed when he shook his head, indicated his wristwatch and made a circular move with his other hand to mime he had no time. So she nodded, still smiling, to indicate she understood.

He smiled back at her then. And it appeared a sad, regretful little smile to someone who knew him as well as she did. She mimed putting her gloved and bloodied fingers towards her lips and gestured blowing the kiss towards him.

A silly, sentimental gesture. So she was astonished when he nodded into her eyes and repeated the gesture back to her. It stopped her in her tracks and stopped her breathing foe just a second.

He had never done that before! He leaned forward and put his other gloved hand onto the glass to her, as if presenting his palm in the nearest thing he could to a touch, and she offered her hand towards him with the same mirrored gesture. He pressed hard on the glass, bowed his head - and then he was gone.

Leaving her speechless and sad and feeling oddly bereft.

o0o0o

.

He preferred not to think about those two difficult, despairing calls of the morning. Calls that had had to be made.

Thought instead about the secret contents of the Belstaff that had often come in so useful. Too useful to be dismissed as some sort of James Bond style fantasy game.

The little picklocks that acted as collar stiffeners, Sheathed scalpel blades behind the belt buckle, cheese wire threaded through the turnup of the hem. The credit card lurking behind the manufacturer's label. The pills in odd seams and mini pockets all round the coat.

Pills that went into his mouth, swallowed dry. The idiot who was supposed to be keeping an eye on him was not even looking, and would not have had a clue what he was doing now even if he had. Lowly ranking and no wonder. And not a lot of expectation for advancement on this evidence.

So off to Eastern Europe with you, Sherlock! Out of sight, out of mind. The embarrassing little brother tidied well out of the way. Off on the mission Mycroft had originally declined for him out of hand.

And then changed his mind about it as a handy way to get rid of his hindrance of a brother without loss of face and perhaps the opportunity to bask in the sympathetic glow and favour of hindsight assessing a brave failure and honourable death. Yes, that was more like it.

 _Yet still to adventure and battle I ride….._

Take, chew, swallow. Easy now, after the first two. He arranged the list for Mycroft on his lap and held it there lightly with his free hand.

 _Though back into storyland giants have fled_

 _And the knights are no more and the dragons are dead_

He put his head back into the rest. Closed his eyes and consciously relaxed.

Yes. The dragon was dead. He had done all he could, tackling a villain no-one else wanted to face, or thought they could face. Lady Smallwood had had faith in him; and than Lady Smallwood had lost faith in him and sacked him.

Never mind. It was too late then to stop. Magnussen had been, had always been, the ultimate villain he had to defeat.

He had done his best. In the final analysis he had won, and had destroyed Magnussen and his secrets. He had done what had needed doing and could not have given any more of himself to achieve it.

But it had been a pyrrhic victory. He had won - but had been destroyed by his victory. Tough. That happened, sometimes. The calculation of probability of that had been made, and judged worth the risk.

 _No place for a dragon slayer now, Mycroft. I won against the odds many times. I defeated the laws of averages far too often. It was all going to catch up with me at some point. And this is that point. So be it. Odds and averages, no sentiment._

 _I am an anachronism. If this mission is the death of me, then that is how the cards fell._

 _The knights are no more, and the dragons are dead. For today._

 _Best out of the way, then, blud. No need for your dragonslayer any more. TTFN, Mycroft._

He closed his eyes with a sigh and finally let go. Welcomed the oblivion he had been seeking for so long as he waited for it to overwhelm his senses.

o0o0o0o

The jet turned slowly onto the correct runway, and with a deepening of engine note powered down the concrete path, punching out power and rapidly gathering speed.

John and Mary Watson stood by their borrowed limousine, holding hands, watching it go and leaving them behind.

Moved beyond words, both of them convinced they would never see Sherlock Holmes again, they had no way to express their sadness now, even to each other.

They automatically raised their free hands and waved. Knowing their friend would be disgusted if they saw such an ordinary, everyday act of sentiment. Knew, but waved anyway. Not knowing Sherlock was sitting on the opposite side of the aircraft specifically so he could not see them. Or see Mycroft.

In the aeroplane, Sherlock had been sitting quietly. Waiting for the pills to cut in and obliterate the angry and angst ridden workings of his brain.

His eyes flew open in irritation. This was all taking far too much time! He went back to propping his chin on his hand, looking vacantly out of the window. Consciously turned inward, waiting for the physical reaction of feeling the pills doing their work. Seeking his oblivion. Obliterating himself.

The steward who was actually an MI6 functionary, walked slowly from the steward's bay behind the cockpit at the other end of the fuselage to approach him, to pass him something. A mobile phone.

Sherlock glared at it with mistrust and distaste. He had not been allowed to bring his own phone with him. Mycroft had confiscated it. It would have given him away to his enemies. Would have made contact with home too easy. Would have started this alien mission on the wrong foot, and with the wrong mentality. He had a brand new smartphone in his pocket, shiny and bland.

The telephone waved under his nose now did not bode well for his future.

"Sir?" says the apologetic voice far too politely: "It's your brother."

Sherlock's eyes came back from the telephone to the outside world and focussed only slowly. Stuff had started working now. 'Bout time. He found he was having to lean a little too far forward to take the phone, and had to put the other hand down to stop himself, and the list, sliding to the floor. He pulled a face.

"Mycroft?" Not quite believing he was talking so soon to the brother he had just said his farewells to. Farewells he had expected to be his farewells for ever. Not for just…..

"Hello, little brother." The familiar voice was unbelievably smug; oleaginous, even. Yes, that was a word that suited Mycroft. Oleaginous. Sherlock waited. "How's the exile going?" his brother continued with a mild tone of social, disinterested query.

"I've only been gone four minutes."

Could not keep the annoyance out of his voice. Didn't want to. Or see why he might have to.

"Well, I certainly hope you've learned your lesson." The voice could not sound more pompous if it tried. Sherlock pulled a face he knew his brother could not see. And was instantly suspicious. "Could we possibly persuade you to turn back? As it turns out, you're needed."

"Oh for God's sake! Make up your mind! Who needs me this time?"

He didn't bother to conceal his irritation. And he could feel the pills starting to ease the tension in his shoulders and his stomach.

"England." The tone of voice had a big brother edge of resignation to it.

"Yet I am on my way to a suicide mission in Eastern Europe," came the chilling reply. "Or have you forgotten?"

Mycroft Holmes looked up and through the car window and slowly counted to five while trying to keep his mind quiet.

The Watsons, outside the car, were deep into a perplexed conversation at the edge of the runway. About how master criminal and serious head case James Moriarty could have appeared, simultaneously and without being bidden, on every television screen in the country and while there had asked the eternal question - Miss Me?

After having been told the news from a stunned Mycroft Holmes just moments earlier.

So Mycroft Holmes repeated the words to his brother he had just said to the Watsons. Because if he said them again, he might just believe it himself this time.

The grinning death's head of James Moriarty, On all the television screens in the country. Saying 'Miss Me?' in that leering, dangerous, uniquely terrifying way of his. And had terrified everyone who saw it witless. Even when they had no idea who he was. What he did. How he had died. And at the very concept he might not be dead at all. That he was back. And after blood. Sherlock Holmes's blood? Anyone's blood?

The call had gone straight to Mycroft. Who saw it as a relay on his TV screen in the limousine. And who reached instantly for his telephone to call the only person who knew Moriarty and could deal with the man. Even though Moriarty was now three years dead. Yes he was! Of course he was! Dead and gone! And yet….here he was!

Sherlock. Why to God was it always and only Sherlock? Why was Sherlock the only person he and Lady Smallwood - and thus, in effect, the entire British government - could call on for help, for rescue, and to offer a measure of hope?

"Not at all. But as you are a unique force of nature you will always be needed somewhere. And here is more important than Eastern Europe in the current and urgently updated scheme of things."

"Really?" The tone was scathing. "Do tell."

Why my brother? Mycroft thought, and not for the first time. And why me? Why do we always end up like this? Me and my brother. My younger brother and me. Is it someone's evil plan? Is it fate? Is it the Gods laughing at us? Or just luck? Destiny?

He sighed. And then he told Sherlock about Moriarty.

There was a very still silence on the line after he had finished speaking.

No anger. No exclamation of disbelief. No irritated sigh, or clicked tongue of frustration. Just nothing from the other end of the telephone, nothing at all.

"Sherlock?" he asked. And even to himself his voice sounded more tentative than he had hoped.

"Yes?" Too terse a response to read a reaction into. Not helpful.

"Well?"

"Well? Well what?"

"What do you intend to do now? Being our resident Moriarty expert? As it were?"

He didn't ask the real question; did not dare ask. Especially as Sherlock did not sound quite himself. Or was, perhaps, too angry to articulate a proper reply? Now, that would be a first!

"I am currently being sent on a mission that is punishment and promise of death to remove me from being the thorn in everyone's side. Remember that, do you? Or am I now being redirected to deal with Moriarty? I think it is safe to say I am currently confused due to being unable to be in two places at once. Rock or hard place, Mycroft?"

"It is not that at all, little brother."

"Oh, really? Want a peep at my view from here and then see what you think?"

"Sherlock, I….." he hesitated. Pushed himself. "Do you want me to beg?"

"No. It's not as amusing as it used to be. I think I am getting old."

Mycroft waited, barely daring to breathe.

"All right, then. Do it. You got me into this cleft stick. You get me out of it. Turn the plane around."

The call was disconnected from the other end before he could even say thank you. He pulled a face at the phone and felt weak with relief.

I am not my brother's keeper, he told himself firmly. Well, not that much. And there are times when I do actually feel that he is mine. And that I couldn't do any of it without him.

Fortunately he never quite seemed to realise that. Or he would be quite insufferable.

He slumped for a moment in his seat; both in reaction to the startling sight of Moriarty on screen, and then his brother's reaction to himself and to the news.

The relief of Sherlock's return would take both pressure and responsibility from his shoulders, as well as ease his natural fear for his brother's welfare.

For it was proving hard to carry the weight of the decision to banish him to exile and uncertain death as retribution for killing Magnussen.

The process of deciding what to do with Sherlock had almost broken him; it was not a position he ever wanted to be in again - weighing his professional objectivity against his love for his troublesome little brother. The worst Gordian knot of all to grapple with and undo.

But fortunately the faceless people who were his peers and beyond recognised the truth of his dilemma. That beyond the law there would always be a need for the Sherlock Holmes' of this world, the mavericks who were the swords of justice and truth, and who served both by standing alone and daring to act outside them to preserve them.

The spasm of human shock and grief that resulted from seeing Sherlock kill Magnussen had turned into ripples of professional shock, demanding the iron control of his rapid decision process and then finally a sense of relief as the problem was dealt with. And it all passed through him in a series of debilitating and unusual tremors.

Now saw some form of unexpected climax to the process. So he remained inside the car for scant moments as he dragged in air and a superficial appearance of calm. Telephoned the control tower to give the instruction to call the private jet back home. Reported back to Lady Smallwood that Sherlock was returning, and all would soon be under control.

He took a moment and looked away to apparently inspect the view as he waited for the shock to leave him, as he recovered his strength and poise, and also ignored the concerned look of his driver he saw via the rear view mirror.

"I'm fine, Andrew. Please don't fuss," he murmured. And his regular driver nodded and averted his eyes.

He opened his door and got out of the car. His legs felt ridiculously weak, and the entire situation unreal.

But the processing of all that information and conversation cannot have taken as long as he had expected. Because as he stepped out of the warmth of the car into the force of the winter wind, hr could hear the Watsons still in heated discussion about the shocking news he had just broken to them.

"But he's dead. You told me he was dead. Moriarty…." Mary Watson's voice sounded anxious - yet she had never even met the manic Irishman.

"Definitely," Her husband's voice was strong, convinced. "He blew his own brains out."

"So how can he be back?"

Mycroft tried not to look as if he was eavesdropping, not give a bitter and disbelieving smile. Mrs Watson was not wrong. The logic was indisputable. Except that this was Moriarty they were talking about. And anything was possible in his case!

John and Mary Watson both turned then, turned to face Mycroft, hearing him getting back out of the car and closing the door behind him.

As they turned into the direction of the prevailing wind, they heard a dull engine note getting louder, approaching the decommissioned military airfield. There should not be an aeroplane arriving right now. And yet this one sounded so familiar. Unbelievably familiar

John Watson looked up into the dull winter sky and started to smile. Mycroft Holmes watched him, knowing he recognised what he was hearing. And had realised Sherlock Holmes was on his way home to them, his potentially fatal exile aborted for now.

"Well, if he is, he'd better wrap up warm," John Watson said with a grin on his face now, a grimly playful tone to his voice. "There's an east wind coming."

Mycroft Holmes, who had not been visibly or even deliberately listening, was instantly galvanised into action. He was suddenly responding to those words.

"Dr Watson?" he spoke with his usual collected calm, the usual polite civil servant's look of enquiry on his face. "Might I have a word?"

He walked the seven steps across to the Watsons, seemingly calm and unhurried, to take John Watson firmly by the arm and walk him away from his wife.

"If you would give us a moment, dear lady…." he apologised gracefully to Mary, steering the doctor away and out of earshot.

Once on the far side of his limousine, Mycroft swung John Watson closer towards him. Eyes burning, voice low and intent. Knowing that with their back to the wind they would never be overheard.

"I heard you - I think I just heard you - say 'there's an east wind coming.'"

"Yeah," John Watson agreed, staring at his best friend's brother as if he was slightly mad if not actually possessed. "Yeah, that's right."

"What made you say that?" Mycroft was trying to keep his voice quiet and calm and blandly barely interested. But even to himself his voice sounded a little desperate, a bit shrill. Which was making Watson look at him oddly.

"Sherlock said it."

"When? When did he say that? When?"

"Just now." Watson nodded to himself, remembering. "Just before he got in the plane. He said….grimaces in thought, trying to remember. "He said 'there's an east wind coming.'

"Oh God. Look, John….."

Mycroft Holmes felt he was gibbering. But looking at Watson, who was concentrating now and interested, not frightened or disturbed, it seemed he was sounding just like his normal self. How ironic.

"He has said it before, Mycroft," Watson was seeking to be reassuring, "What are you so worried about?

"Said it before? When?"

"When he was in hospital. The first time Just after he was shot and came back to life. He spoke a lot of rubbish - people tend to when coming round from anaesthetic - but he definitely said 'there's an East Wind coming.' I just thought he was having some sort of barbiturate induced recurring dream. Did you never hear him say it.?"

John Watson waited until he saw Mycroft Holmes shake his head.

"Not then, no."

"The second time he was in hospital, after he collapsed in Baker Street… well, he stopped me seeing him after that, didn't he? But I definitely heard him say it before, in the early days in hospital. Before he sent me away. Yeah." John Watson nodded to himself, sure of his memories of such an insignificant thing - or, rather, a thing that seemed so very insignificant compared to almost dying twice. "Why, Mycroft? What's this about?"

"Sherlock, Dr Watson. Who else? The unending mystery that is Sherlock Holmes." He grasped the handle of his umbrella tighter, as if for courage and emphasis.

"My brother is a strong, secretive, and self sufficient man. To my eternal regret he closes me out of his life at every opportunity. And also demonstrates a remarkable ability to deny his own needs. Whatever it is he might need. Food, sleep, support…. you know this. It is what makes him so easy to admire, so hard to help."

"Yeah. Think I knew that."

"But do you, though? You know some of the triggers that stress him. Things that are normal and ordinary to anyone else: friendship, boredom, intimacy, sex. The sort of triggers that place him under immeasurable stress. And when that happens he indicates that pressure to talk semi coherently about the East Wind. Or Redbeard. Or display his most negative reaction to being touched.

"These subjects are like totems; indicators of pressures that trigger the worst of him. Emotional or physical withdrawal, fugue, drug taking, disappearing for days on end. His danger nights."

"What are you going on about, Mycroft?" John Watson prompted. "Speaking in riddles again?"

"John. I have no time to play verbal gymnastics any more, I need you to tell me something quickly - before this plane lands."

John Watson looked up into the intent face of the taller man, puzzled by the new and honest sincerity, the urgency and the lack of the usual posturing and obfuscation. Looked down at the compelling hand on his arm.

"Before Sherlock is back and joins us. Tell me," he demanded.

"Tell you what?"

"Tell me what my brother means to you, John Watson. Honestly. Quickly."

John Watson's face shifted.

I can't….mustn't say. You know I don't do emotional stuff, Mycroft. No more than Sherlock does. Or you, for that matter."

"Tell me, John, please. Lives may depend on it."

For a moment John Watson hesitated, almost turned to walk away. The grip on his arm tightened and was uncomfortable, demanding. Very unlike Mycroft!

"Dr John Watson, when you first appeared in my brother's life I was very suspicious of your presence and your motives. You may recall as much."

They both remembered the abduction from a London street, the dark car ride, the interview in the deserted warehouse. Mycroft had been coolly threatening, an arch and ominous presence doing his best to scare the doctor. He had failed then. He was determined not to fail now.

"The way you have treated him since his return has been appalling. You have assaulted him, showed him neither care nor empathy, and really so little interest, yet you seemed to think giving him what he would consider the most frightening task in the world - being best man at your wedding - was some sort of consolation prize. It was not.

"Your wife almost killed him, and still he does everything he can to rescue and save the two of you from Magnussen's victimisation.

"And yet for some reason I do not understand, my brother still offers you his loyalty and his - dare I really use this word? - his love. And I fail to understand why. Because the view from where I am standing is not impressive.

"So convince me, doctor. Convince me that you should still be standing here on the ground as he arrives back to face yet another Herculean task. To find you waiting to re-establish yourself as the millstone - or is it the albatross? - around his neck."

Mycroft Holmes was in full flow. And because such an outburst was so rare, John Watson simply stood and watched and listened. Fascinated, amazed, appalled.

"Because do not doubt me in this, Watson. At the very least I shall banish you, you and your lethal excuse of a wife, from my brother forever if I judge it the right thing to do. In his best interests. Sherlock may be angry with me, but then he always is. But neither he nor you will have any choice in the matter.

And if I must do that, have no illusions. Then I will destroy you. You. And your duplicitous wife."

John Watson looked up into the implacable face of Mycroft Holmes; and for once it held the look of concentrated raw power that only his younger brother channelled so visibly and so fiercely; unknowable, unfathomable and truly frightening in it's determination.

He should have been angry, defensive, scornful. But instead he felt the edges of fear. He knew the character and the power base of Sherlock Holmes' brother so much better now than he had in the beginning - and he knew he also felt oddly guilty for the way he had treated his best friend since his return from Serbia and that ridiculous appearance in the restaurant, and felt that way regardless of Mycroft's stern words.

John Watson's fear for himself - for his way of life and his wife and unborn child -warred with fear for his friend. And the fear for himself was so much less than he had ever thought in comparison, he realised.

Sherlock, before all else. Deny it as much as he liked, but…it was true. Sherlock came first. Sherlock. Without Sherlock he would not even be here. Sherlock. Who had saved his life, saved his soul, gave him something to live for, pride and purpose and self respect. Sherlock who kept him sane and grounded. Sherlock who…..he shook his head, stunned.

He owed Sherlock Holmes so much. Including reconciliation with his wife, the joy of the thought of hid unborn daughter. Had falling in love sent him mad for a time? Rocked all his priorities? Or had that been the grief of thinking Sherlock Holmes was dead? A grief he had never know was false, a lie that had been undertaken to honour the truth of friendship and protection and love, a sacrifice he had never understood until recently, that had been made to save his life. His - John Watson's!

And how had he repaid the man to whom he owed everything? Badly. And what tormented now was how much that ignorance was an excuse for his behaviour? And what was it that Sherlock Holmes - the sociopath without friends, the machine without emotions, had seen and understood all that better than he ever could? How did that happen?

The realisation was shattering, if not surprising. And after a short internal battle with himself and the full acceptance of this truth, and the debt he owed, John Watson capitulated without reservation.

"I love Mary," he began hesitantly. This was not the sort of conversation he had with anyone; and certainly not with Mycroft Holmes. "She is my wife. My wife despite everything - the secrets, the lies, shooting Sherlock.

"And she is carrying my child. Is that not a miracle?" he looked up, then, and with the whole sky in his eyes. A basic human truth and craving. Looked down again, for he could not meet the eyes of Mycroft Holmes with his soul so full of such a simplistic human need that neither of the Holmes brothers would appreciate or deign to understand.

"But Sherlock…. " he hesitated. But had to say it. Perhaps he should have said this years ago. Faced it months ago. Not caused the problems when Sherlock returned from the dead by denying the hurt of it, both his own and Sherlock's. Especially Sherlock's.

Nor turned his back on the best, the very best, friend he had ever had, or would have. The man who had leapt and died and suffered for him. Had saved his life - John Watson's. The friend who had returned from the dead to suffer again.

Looking back, John Watson wondered how he could have dismissed, rejected, and misunderstood the man he had loved enough to choose as best man at his wedding, yet had not seen, not understood, the sacrifice he had observed without seeing the effects.

But he had not known. No-one had told him. Yet for all his pains Sherlock Holmes had been shot and killed by his wife. And had deserved none of it. But John Watson knew his friend would have no time for the emotion that was overwhelming him now.

 _Sentiment, John. Pathetic. Pull yourself together!_

Right, then. This was the time to be finally honest, put things right now as best he could.

"Sherlock saved my life. When he found me I had no hope for the future, no reason to live. He gave me that. He has saved my life so many times. And then Mary's life. I owe him so much….just don't ask me to choose between them, Mycroft. Just don't."

"You still haven't answered me, John."

"Sherlock is ….." John Watson looked up into the dull winter's sky for inspiration, and only saw the tiny black speck that was the Lear jet returning.

"Sherlock is…..God, this is going to sound so cheesey….Sherlock is my soul and my strength and my very heartbeat, Mycroft. If Mary is my heart and Sherlock is my heartbeat - where does that leave me? Would leave me if I had to face a life without either of them?" He shook his head in frustration.

"All I can tell you, Mycroft, is that….without Mary I am no-one." He shook his head and sighed. Resigned to utter exposure. "I've been no-one before, I know that place. But without Sherlock….I am nothing. Don't exist. And if that means I love the man. Then I love the man. Good enough for you?"

He gave Mycroft Holmes a fierce yet unapologetic look.

"Thank you, John. I know that was not easy for you. But listen to me very carefully.

"Sherlock has been under indescribable pressure for….a long time, now. Moriarty, the Fall, his little adventures away. Serbia, the Gunpowder Plot, your wedding.

"Unbearable things as a result of defeating Magnussen. Some even I do not know. More you are not even aware of. And look what happened with that man just a week ago. My brother did things he always swore he would never do. …commit murder. Get personally involved in a case. Suffer for it.

"All because of you." his voice bit to a stop in a most un-Mycroft like way; stifled by anger and visible hurt. John Watson peered at him in disbelief.

"You're scaring me now, Mycroft. What are you trying to tell me? And failing badly, I might add?

"I… I don't know what state he will be in when he gets off this plane, John. Give him a battle, and he will always - always - find the strength to fight it. But Magnussen's case pushed him beyond even his limits. His logic and sense of honour told him he should die, he has been braced to die. And now…he won't.

"He is overwhelmed with guilt for having sinned and murdered. But now his punishment and retribution are postponed. Or cancelled. Give him exile and a suicide mission - he can handle that. But this reprieve will destroy him."

He looked at the shock on John Watson's face and his lip curled in a sort of despair and disgust. "Oh. Did you not realise it was a suicide mission? You really are more stupid than I thought, then."

He watched John Watson flinch and step back hurt, but was unmoved.

"He has been expecting the end, John. An eye for an eye. He understands that. Welcomes it as fair judgement upon him. Solitary confinement for the past week has had him dwelling on it. Alone isn't good for my brother. Alone he tends to….self destruct, shall we say?

That was why you were allowed into his life five years ago. Flat mate, assistant, friend, minder. You have let him down in all those particulars for a long time now."

He raised his hand for silence as the doctor rushed in to speak and protest.

"He made too many allowances for you. He does not understand love, yet gave you free a rein with yours. Ridiculous. But then, his strengths are greater than anyone I know. But his frailties - such as making so many allowances for you - can be too.

"High and low. Light and shade. For that is Sherlock - but contrary to what you may think, I would not have him any other way.. One of the reasons I look after him so obsessively, John. Why I tell no-one any truths about him. Apart from you - now. The person he is still fool enough to think is the one person closest to him."

Mycroft sighed, looked up, watched the jet get closer and closer.

"You know how Sherlock is with an impossible mission - like a terrier down a rabbit hole. Whatever happens now, whatever he is returning to, he may need all you can do - all we can both do…..to assist him and to save him.

"Not just from Moriarty or Magnussen, but from himself. From the pressure he is under, and from his past." For a split second his brain stepped out and left him floundering behind it; and John Watson saw that.

"Even for him this may all prove….." he sought for the right words. "….an impossible level of burden."

John Watson was rendered speechless. What was coming next?

They watched in wordless unity as the jet landed and taxied down the runway. The started walking slowly back to where the aeroplane would come to a halt.

"I may, of course, simply be over reacting," Mycroft said with his best reptilian smile, calm again now. "It may just be the latest stretch of one remarkably long tether and I am exaggerating. I hope I am.

"But as the person who claims to be closest to my brother, I felt it was time you knew. And if,,, Redbeard, or ultra reaction to touch, or the East Wind, or any of his other safety valves reappear in conversation….well, you will tell me, won't you?"

"Mycroft!"

"No rush, John. No panic. Sherlock will be down the steps in a minute. Grumbling and complaining at the inconvenience, and ready to get back into Moriarty's head again."

Mycroft Holmes stepped forward and put a cautionary hand on the doctor's arm.

"I shall deny ever having said this, so listen to me carefully, Dr Watson. My brother is foolish enough to depend upon you, whatever he might say. And if you let him down now - yet again; well…I don't have to tell you what will happen to you and your wife, now do I?

He smiled again, and this time it was the smile on the face of a tiger protecting it's cub.

"If I said what I am thinking. About life and death. It would sound so childishly melodramatic. But I would still mean it. Do you get my drift, Doctor?"

The threat was implicit but unmistakeable. The British Government at his most succinct. John Watson blanched, despite himself.

"I won't let you down, Mycroft. Nor Sherlock. Especially not Sherlock."

Mycroft Holmes put his head back and laughed then, smiled and clapped John Watson on the shoulder. From afar it would have looked such a friendly exchange. Only John Watson saw that the pale blue eyes looking into his were as cold and ruthless and as deadly as a shark's.

Because that was what they had to do next, they turned and started to walk across the bleak cold runway.

They laughed then to cover unease and embarrassment from a conversation too intense. At the very idea of Sherlock, back so soon. All of them reprieved by his return. Mary, just behind them now, heard their laughter and laughed too. Because Sherlock was not heading for banishment and certain death any more.

He was returning from the shortest exile in history. Madman and murderer. Assassin and saviour. Fallen angel and rising Phoenix. Sherlock Holmes.

And was that not typical of the man? His enduring enigma and his truth? John Watson shook his head to empty Mycroft Holmes and that dangerous reaction from what must become a positive mood for Sherlock's sake, so he could not help smiling. Sherlock was returning, bouncing back, the eternal bad penny. Mycroft over reacting as ever. But terrifying with it.

What else was new? He drew a shaky breath.

The aeroplane's passenger door opened, and the steps dropped. They paused, expectant, looking for a tall dark figure.

But no Sherlock appeared.

So they walked, more slowly now, until after two minutes, the aircraft steward who was an MI6 agent stood in the doorway instead.

Looked wildly around him, saw Mycroft.

Made a scooping wave, a universal signal for 'come here.' Then again. more urgently.

"Mr Holmes! Sir! it's your brother…."

And then words failed him, and he turned back into the dark fuselage of the jet.

Mycroft shot a quick anguished glance at John Watson, then turned and started to run across the empty grey concrete. Coat flying, long legs racing, and faster than John Watson, looking on in astonishment, would ever have thought possible.

After a startled moment during which it registered than he had never seen Mycroft move any faster than a poised amble before, John Watson started to run too, and followed him .

For a second he looked back to see Mary trying to catch up, unable to run, walking as fast as the latter stages of pregnancy allowed, but being left far behind.

John Watson made his choice. Turned and ran towards Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock Holmes, you will be the bloody death of me," he heard himself mutter.

What he could not hear was the mumbling sing-song voice of the semi conscious man strapped into the aeroplane seat.

The MI6 agent stood indecisively over Sherlock Holmes, anxious, puzzled, looking down.

Seeing a gaunt and ill looking man with eyes closed, head back, sweat on his brow, a half smile on his lips.

Words were dribbling out of his mouth in a steady flow.

" _And the knights are no more….and the dragons are dead. "_

Sherlock Holmes smiled angelically then, and his eyes half opened, but were unfocussed.

Alistair Diamond took out his telephone and began to record what he heard:

"What are we doing now, Myc? You put me on a plane, take me off a plane…'S OK. Bring me your problems, I'll sort 'em. "Serbia, Europe, whatever, wherever. In a minute. Bit whoozy yet. Never mind. All right now, though. Coming home. Off the hook, is it? Or on a bigger one? Hook in the ceiling ready for a rope?

Moriarty…Magnussen…. Both connected? Maybe? Not dead? The body disappeared off the roof, never found…..saw him die. Saw blood pouring from his head…he's dead. No. No? Alive again then? Somehow? Well, I died and came back.. Why not Moriarty? Why not Magnussen? "

Sherlock Holmes writhed in his seat, frowning, unseeing, unaware of the recording being made of his words.

"Doppelganger? Groomed nutter? Suicidal imposter? Younger brother - like me? Twin brother? No! Not twins! Never twins! Plot. Revenge plot. Typical Moriarty. Where is he? Is he at Appledore? Is it me caused all this? Me? Revenge on me because the East Wind didn't sweep me away? Brought me back, though, didn't it? Return to power? All just a trick, Mycroft. Another magic trick…"

The words stumbled to a halt. The passenger was too busy shaking his head, fumbling with the seatbelt, failing to undo it. Starting to panic now, struggling to escape.

There was the sound of footsteps hurrying up the aeroplane steps, the shocks and jolts underfoot of a running man catapulting into the fuselage.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft Holmes's voice, full of authority and sharp with fear, echoed around the interior. Then the Watsons joined him.

"He's been talking sir! Listen!"

Mycroft nodded permission, Diamond pressed the button, and the stream of words poured out afresh, tinny in recording, but no less stricken, or driven, and very clear.

As Sherlock Holmes lay back in his seat and looked ill, and unconscious and wrecked. For the listeners, the combination of semi conscious man and his ghostly disembodied words was surreal.

John and Mary Watson stood and listened too. But only Mycroft Holmes understood every word.

"Oh, God….." he whispered to himself as the recording ended. "Oh God." And slumped down into a seat opposite.

His brother seemed to hear him, because he suddenly stilled, stopped fighting the constraints of the seat belt. Opened his eyes.

"Oh, hello Mycroft," he asked cheerfully, sounding so much his normal self, and almost lighthearted." Are we there yet? Wherever it is?"

The sweat made his face shine oddly, eyes glassy and not quite focussed. The whoozy smile of someone on a drugs hit.

"What have you taken, Sherlock?"

"Nothing. Bit of oblivion. S'all." He grinned then. Frowned. Thinking was clearly hard right now.

He looked round, concentrating fiercely to try and focus. Diamond had stepped back and Sherlock looked around him. Mycroft. John. Mary. All looking at him, looking worried.

Gave what he thought was a reassuring grin.

"Oh, look," he said. "All the people I love. All here. Shouldn't love me, you know. Not safe. Bit not good, that.

"I am….." he paused and frowned, drawing himself upright. "I am a consulting detective. Only one in the world," he announced grandly. "I am a best man and a complete arsehole. I am a murderer and….and a dragon slayer."

The whoozy grin again.

"A dragon slayer! A dragon slayer, Mycroft? Is that really what you think of me?" He grinned and slumped forward. Pulled back.

"Silly Mycroft. Not a dragon slayer. Everyone knows I'm a pirate." He settled himself comfortably in his seat, and grinned at the people surrounding him.

"More data, Mycroft. Give me more data." For brief seconds he seemed like himself.

Then he hummed some bars of music: semi sung some words John Watson had not heard since childhood:

"… _.let me set free with the sword of my youth_

 _From the castle of darkness, the power of the truth….."_

" I need truth, Mycroft. Data. Something's missing," he said very clearly and as firmly as usual, the baritone back in it's proper register. "There's someone you've missed. From Appledore. And that's someone else we need to find. Urgently. Not just Moriarty…." his head rose.

"Why is it only me who knows this, sees these things? C'mon, Mycroft, focus. Help me, John. The game is on."

He grinned up at them, fire in his eyes, intelligence burning. And then he passed out.

THE END

.

 **Author's Notes:**

' _When a Knight won his Spurs'_ is a C20th children's hymn written by English poet and author Jan Struther.(1901-1953) She wrote a number of memorable hymns such as ' _Daisies Are Our Silver'_ and _'Lord of All Hopefulness.'_ She also created the character _'Mrs Miniver'_ for a wartime morale boosting newspaper column, which then became an Oscar winning Best Picture during WW2.

Gordion Knot: an impossible problem to unravel. A legend connected to Alexander the Great and repeated throughout history, and in writings from Sartre to graphic novels, Disney to Camus.

Red lines: In England red, instead of yellow, lines on the edge of a road are a more stringent instruction and means no parking or unloading at any time.

Jeanne: The homeless girl in _Sherlock_ is played by the talented Jeany Spark, who also played Linda, the daughter of Kenneth Branagh in the English version of _Wallander._

Blud: the streetwise version of 'brother.' Which Cumberbatch added adlib to the end of his speech at the start of TEH S3 Ep1 when he leaves Mycroft's office before heading to The Landmark.

The title of this long story derived from _Sherlock_ S3 Ep3 _His Last Vow_ comes from the first line of the Bastille song, _Things We Lost in The Fire_ and all chapter headings come from within Dan Smith's lyrics for that song.

This story began as dedicated to my grandfather, the first Charles Augustus of my acquaintance. Lars Mikkelson being the second. Excellent synchronicity Gus would have appreciated!

The late Major George and the Honourable Gabrielle Pike's school played it's own small part in this story in what author and _Endeavour_ creator Russell Lewis calls a writer's use of 'cultural touchstones,' just as did they in a chapter dedication. They are much missed but still not related to Langdale Pike.

And last but far from least, this is also dedicated to my friend Tim Pigott Smith, who died suddenly during the writing of this story.

This was for them all, and in thanks for their part in me.

Nor forgetting Moffat, Gatiss and Cumberbatch, without whom none of us would even be here….

 **THE END…..**

For almost a year I have lived and breathed to the heartbeat of Sherlock Holmes and Charles Augustus Magnussen, and this story has been the result. The chapter a week schedule was only broken by an early post (to console everyone about S4!) and a two days late post due to a hard drive problem beyond my control.

Thank you all for reading - over 9,000 hits at completion - for the feedback and support of my wonderfully loyal and insightful reviewers, (you all know who you are and how much you are appreciated, because I always tell you personally, and yes, that really does include you, Miss Shipp!) and for the technical and heartwarming professional support of Kate221B.

This was the first time I have written either reportage, criticism or fiction without the imposed professional remit of length, style, content or timeframe, so it was a new and hugely enjoyable venture for me, despite those who tried to change and redirect my story in their own image and thus corrupt this take on _His Last Vow_ and in the process diminish Sherlock Holmes. Although you are all, of course, encouraged to write your own version, and do it better. The base material is so rich it deserves many treatments.

I have always made it clear this story sticks strictly to canon as it expands on S3 Ep3. **Only** base material as per S3Ep3 is thus inferred.

Both in real life series production progression and timing, and in plot timeline, it is also obvious that the Lady Smallwood scene early in S4 Ep 1 regarding the doctored 'official' version of the events of the Magnussen shooting, takes place **after** bothS3 and the contemporary plane scenes from _The Abominable Bride,_ as Moriarty is discussed.

Moriarty's presence re the broadcast did not happen until after Sherlock's plane took off - or why send him off to bring him straight back to deal with it? Thus it should also be obvious, even to carping anonymous reviewers, that this S4 scene can only have happened subsequent to the events of both S3 Ep3 and TAB.

This is confirmed when Sherlock says he will 'wait' for Moriarty to target him, thus act as bait to draw Moriarty out. There is no way anyone can present as bait and visible to an enemy when about to disappear and undertake a secret undercover mission to Eastern Europe. Discussion closed.

So-called reviewers who hide behind their safe anonymity as 'Guest' simply to snipe and whinge reveal themselves as cowards and bullies. **Such reviews are always removed for this reason**.

… **..OR IS IT THE BEGINNING?**

To my surprise, it seems my Sherlock and his friends and colleagues are much liked. So I have been asked for a sequel, and for more of Piet, Christina and all.

As they seem to still have lives to live, and things to say and do, I am doing as bid, and working on the sequel, which will lead directly on from Chapter 40, though will not enter the alternative universe of _The Abominable Bride_ \- apart from the contemporary scenes on board the jet , which lead off Chapter One - or the ludicrous improbabilities of S4.

Why? Because someone escaped from the chaos of Appledore. With a handful of paperwork and a photograph someone kept by his bed. Escaped with revenge in his mind, death in his heart, and more than one person to be targeted. Starting with Sherlock Holmes.

There will be a girl with a violin, an Italian secret society and a role for Angelo Grimaldi and his clan. And there is also John Watson to consider, determined to earn back trust and discover who William Holmes was and why he is now Sherlock…There may also be the drive and the distraction of love proffered. But that is for Sherlock himself to decide and reveal.

In the meantime I have a manuscript to edit, and crime fiction articles to write. Then I will be back - and perhaps with some one-shots on the way to keep you entertained.

So watch this space for Magnussen's legacy. And what Sherlock Holmes - and others - do about it!

(This really is the end…the rest is silence)


End file.
